


Courtly Love

by Jacen



Category: Ladyhawke (1985)
Genre: F/M, Feels, Heterosexuality, Pre-Canon, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:09:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1929633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jacen/pseuds/Jacen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before there was a lady who was a hawke and a knight who was a wolf, there were two star-crossed lovers and a bishop, fallen from grace.  This is the story of Isabeau D'Anjou and Etienne of Navarre in a series of vignettes taking place two years before the events of the film.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Attraction To The Lady

**Author's Note:**

> Ladyhawke might be my girlfriends favorite movie of all time and when she said she wanted Ladyhawke fanfiction for her birthday, I couldn't possibly say no. I wrote this based on the stages of a courtly love tale (which is also where the chapter titles come from) and that is approximately all of the historical accuracy I can promise. Thank you for reading, I hope you like my story-my own dear lady certainly did!
> 
> Music Recommendations: The most melodramatic 80's-style pop ballads you can find. Specifically 'Shadows of the Night', 'We Belong' and 'Love Is A Battlefield' by Pat Benatar; 'I Need A Hero', 'Total Eclipse Of The Heart' and 'Have You Ever Seen The Rain' by Bonnie Tyler; 'It's All Coming Back To Me Now' by Celine Dion (really anything by Jim Steinman); 'The Calm After the Storm' by The Common Linnets.

There is little of Aquilan parties that holds much interest these days-the conversation passes Navarre like an autumn breeze, to be deflected with a turned face rather than met with cheer. It is his duty to the Church to be present and so he is, washed and presentable in the black ceremonial armor that sets him apart from the rest of his men. The lords and ladies pass him with barely a glance. One man wearing the captains armor is just the same as another to those who attend these functions. So long as the church is not aflame, he is scenery to them. Recalling the not-so-distant days of his youth, he is grateful that they leave him be. Better this than the never ending parade of folk peering at him as though he would sprout into the form of his venerated father in an eyeblink.

"M'sieur?"

He immediately fixes his face into a blankly polite smile at the sound of the voice to his side. His solitude would end sooner or later, best to seem cheerful about it. "Mademoiselle," he responds, executing a turn towards the interrupting voice with military precision. When he looks into the bright face that is suddenly next to him, the remainder of his greeting is lost. It is difficult for a moment to comprehend the beauty he is confronted with and he finds himself focusing on parts instead of the whole. He has never seen such piercingly blue eyes, such a delicate jaw, such a pert nose. She waits for two breaths before giving a short cough, reminding him that he was speaking. He scrambles for a name, certain that this can only be Isabeau D'Anjou. He has met every other lady of marriageable age at court and not a one can compare to the beauty before him. 

"Mademoiselle," he repeats, remembering to bow this time. Only as he raises his head does he spy the wake the young woman has left-two lean older men who share a certain lightness to their countenance standing directly behind the lady, likely cousins assigned to her safety; two priests staring blatantly at the round of her shoulder; a lord overlooking his lady to stare at Mademoiselle D’Anjou's swept-up hair; the bishop fixated on the curve of her neck. This is what he has heard of her-that she is so beautiful as to render even the most devout man helpless to her charms and that she is as cold as marble to those who court her. When he studies her face again, all he can note is how young she looks. "Captain Navarre, at your service."

She regards him silently with those impossibly blue eyes and he knows he has caused offense. He forces himself to hold firm, reminding himself that she is a girl and that he is captain of the guard. He has been subject to this sort of inspection since trailing after his father at court as a boy. Once he’s regained his mental balance he is able to refocus and turn that steady gaze back on her. The reward is immediate-she blinks. The straight line of her mouth curves at the corners. “Isabeau D’Anjou,” she says. He can hear the laughter she holds back. It is abruptly very difficult to restrain his own grin. “I must make a terrible imposition upon you, Captain.”

He glances past her to the duo at her back, mildly surprised to see that they have turned and retreated into the crowd. The gentleman who was so intent on the lady's hair has returned to his conversation. The priests have wandered to speak with a dowager near the harpsichord. The bishops stare is unwavering. "Of course," Navarre answers. When he meets her eyes again he notes that her expression has become pinched and that small smirk has fallen away. "What can I do for you, milady?"

"I require an escort back to my home," she says, the lightness of her tone just barely masking the edge of exhaustion she clearly wants to express. "It has been a lovely evening, but I find myself overwhelmed with companionship."

The pieces fall into place immediately for Navarre. A lovely young lady without her father or a sister to escort her must seem an easy target for the sort of ill-mannered gentlemen who occasionally attend these occasions. Enduring an hour or more of such pursuit must be wearing on her considerably. "Of course," he repeats, bowing once again and offering his arm. "It would be my pleasure."

She stares at him for a long moment, studying the arm and the man attached to it as a vixen sizes up a hound. When she accepts his elbow, resting one hand lightly against his forearm, it is with an air of resignation. She begins to walk immediately, and he notes as they exit the hall that the bishops gaze follows them as long as it can.


	2. Worship Of The Lady From Afar

The early summer heat is stifling, especially within the veil and the high-necked gown, but physical discomfort is something Isabeau has learned to bear. Better this than distract those who have come to mass-she has had quite enough of the notion that she draws their attention on purpose. She will not be the enemy of piety, intentionally or not, and so when she sits in church it is at the back, in a shapeless, drab gown and a veil appropriate to her state of mourning. She turns her eyes away from everyone, intent on her own praying hands to their exclusion. This inspires almost as much antipathy as her exposed face would, but it is a dislike she can shoulder without much difficulty. For these first few weeks in Aquila, the church has been her sole source of comfort. She needs this place of solace to escape the sorrow of the loss of her father.

When the mass draws to a close, she remains firm in her place. The beauty of ceremony and closeness to God is only one of the reasons she comes. As the others file out of the chapel, she stares at her palms folded in her lap, studiously avoiding each pair of eyes as they pass over her. She has become practised at perceiving those who linger, even when she cannot see them. It has been this way for years, after all. They spot her, recognize her, and then there is a little stutter of a footstep as they take a longer look, as though they are boys learning to spot prey for the first time. Once they pause, there is no knowing how long they will stare-those with women are often pulled along faster, those without are more blatant. Some small number of them ignore their manners and approach her directly. She still has not mastered the maneuvering necessary to manufacture a quick escape from the boldest of her admirers.

Other women wish for beauty with no concept of these costs. How often does she feel like a prisoner to the attentions of men? How often has jealousy driven away a potential friend? She has done nothing to earn this face that causes so much consternation, yet so many act as though it is the only measure of her worth. It is God who has created her as such and she finds herself occasionally wishing He would consider taking it away. Let her age poorly or take ill, something to divert this constant pursuit and give her some respite. 

When the chapel is nearly empty, she unfolds her hands and stands, looking up to see the altar boys sweeping and cleaning in the aisle. She walks to the outside of the pews instead, taking slow, contemplative steps towards the confessional. She hasn't done anything truly sinful in the last day that deserves a confession, but she takes some comfort in the brief conversation with the priest and the rote prayer that follows. Today she chances drawing her veil back once the door is shut, breathing a sigh of relief in the gloom. 

Her confession is short-she has little to say and she refuses to label herself guilty for the unseemly lust of men, no matter how it weighs on her today. Her concessions are matters of practicality, not of her immortal soul. She has nothing to be absolved of in that regard. The priest assigns her ten Hail Marys for her admission of envy of her neighbours garden and she accepts his dismissal, wrapping the veil about her face as she leaves the booth. Lifting her gaze to orient herself in the still-unfamiliar chapel, she catches sight of another penitent exiting his own confessional and stifles a smile beneath her veil. He is her other reason for such consistent attendance at mass-Captain Navarre, the closest she has to a friend as of late, always attends the morning service so he will be on time for the afternoon inspection of the guard. 

He is slower to notice her than she is to spot him, contemplating the tapestries overhead first. When their eyes catch, she nearly startles at the intensity. Though he remains across the chapel she feels pinned in place as he studies her, then smiles thinly and drops into a brief bow. As he rises, so does her hand, brushing the veil against her cheek just enough to regain her sense and turn away. She can't help notice out of the corner of her eye that he parallels her all the way to the kneelers by the shrine to the Blessed Virgin. He is mannerly enough to allow her to choose where she will pray before he finds a spot close by, his eyes only briefly straying from the Holy Mother to her face when the veil slips. 

His attention feels different to her, less invasive. Navarre does not gawk like the others, nor does he become so fixated he will not look away. She struggles to keep her face forward, reciting the prayer in a comfortable drone over and over. When she is done and rises to light a candle, she glances about to find where he’s gone. Navarre is seated in a pew, watching as the duo of altar boys finish the center aisle and begin to work along the sides. His posture is a comfortable slope which seems a little too casual for the house of the Lord, but the ease looks good on him. She touches flame to wick hurriedly, discards her extinguished votive, then fixes her veil as she approaches him. Her smile sparkles in her eyes as she gives a half-curtsy in front of him, earning a grin from the dark-clothed guard captain.

"May I impose?" She asks, nodding towards the doors. He gets to his feet, towering over her at such close quarters. Her mirth quarrels with something warmer as he offers his arm.

"I am at your service, madamoiselle," he responds. She does not lose her smile.


	3. Declaration of Passionate Devotion

The rain is coming down in sheets and it is hard to see from one building to the next. Even with his cloak and his helmet on, Navarre can’t quite keep dry. At least it is a warm summers rain, leaving no chill as it runs down the back of his neck. Were it not for the Bishop’s concern, the captain would not be out in this torrent. His Holiness was insistent, however, and the matter at hand is far closer to Navarre’s heart than he could admit. 

Isabeau is missing.

The Bishop himself had arrived at Navarre’s home an hour ago, every move an expression of deep concern. He had gone to Madameoiselle D’Anjou’s home on a matter of church business and to provide an evenings company for the reclusive young woman. On his arrival he was greeted by servants and it took them some time to admit the truth-she had been out of their sight for an hour at least and they had no notion of where she might be. His Holiness had come immediately to the captain to beseech him to find her, for the sake of the lady's purity and her fathers good name. 

There is little to guide him in finding her. He began by patrolling near her home in hopes she had simply taken shelter somewhere inconvenient during a walk. When it became clear she had not gone to ground there, he broadened his circle, taking side paths through the town. As he rides he thinks over the social occasions which she may have garnered an invitation to this evening-from their brief conversations after mass he is aware that she recieves quite a few. She thinks it is because she is a mystery. He is more cynical and thinks it is because she is beautiful. When she disagrees with his assertion she looks away or fixes the veil about her face. In the last few weeks he has made a habit of such compliments, just to see her prettily flustered.

He guides Goliath along the cobblestone paths, going slowly by the houses of those hosting this evening to get a good look inside. The pace is as much for the horses sake as his own. The great black stallion is barely broke, just rideable and still uncertain on these surfaces. It takes patience to ride him in the town proper as he slips and picks up his feet at in opportune times. Isabeau has observed that the beast looks like he is dancing when he starts that prancing gait, which is a source of some consternation. Warhorses, Navarre has told her very sternly in spite of her immediate laughter, do not dance.

Sure enough, as the cobbles become smoother, Goliath begins to high-step. No amount of reining or jabs with Navarre's heels dissuades the horse from his fit of temper. He clip-clops them along the street until Navarre finally has enough. He takes the reins in one hand and dismounts, giving the horse a solid thump on the shoulder on the way down. It will be impossible to find Isabeau with the horse acting as though he is on parade. Tugging at the reins, he begins to walk, sighing as the high-stepping continues behind him. 

He turns down a side street, entirely soaked now, and finds himself at the corner of the house of a fellow knight. It takes several moments of staring at the coat of arms over the gate before he recalls the name-Montreau-and the occupation of the gentleman. Though he holds the title, he is not a knight as Navarre and the Guard are. He is a man of means and land, fond of parties. His title was purchased from the crown. The sound of voices carries just over the pounding rain and Navarre decides that he could stand to investigate the celebration if it means standing indoors for a few minutes. It is the last of the parties he can think of-after this he will have to begin combing the woods.

He walks Goliath up to the house, catching the eye of one of the servants huddled in the entryway and handing the reins to him. He knows he will be the talk of the gathering tonight, arriving as he has in filthy boots and his off-duty clothing, but social niceties are at the back of his mind as he steps through the doors. The warmth of the room hits him immediately, becoming more welcoming still when one of the servants takes his coat. He does not wait for the host to come to greet him, but immediately follows the noise to the the ballroom and the guests within.

It is not especially crowded-most of the attendees are dancing in pairs in the centre of the room. He moves along the edge, studying the faces of those who have chosen not to dance in case she has tucked herself away in a corner. When this is fruitless, he casts a quick eye to the dance floor and spies her immediately. 

The veil and the shapeless shift she wears to mass have been left at home. She is dressed modestly in a powder blue gown, flowing in time with the music as her stunned-looking partner tries to keep up. Isabeau's grace lends itself to him-the fellow seems like a better dancer than he is because of her deft steps. Though Navarre has seen her smile to him behind veils and at her doorstep, he has never seen this brilliant, beaming creature. She is alive in a way he has only suspected she could be and his heart crashes in his chest at the sight. His feet, not content with waiting at the side, have him halfway to her before he realises what he is doing and by then it is too late. Those brilliant blue eyes have found him and her smile has grown further. She sweeps towards him, her partner oblivious, and is next to him in a flurry of skirts in a moment.

"May I-" Navarre begins, holding out his hand. She is free of her partner with a twist of the wrist, granting him a brief bob of a curtsy before slipping her palm into Navarre's.

"Of course," she answers, granting him a moment to catch the music before they glide out onto the floor again, "You're soaking," she murmurs to him immediately and it does him no favors to suddenly realize how close she is and how fresh and light she smells. 

"I was looking for you," he replies, his voice as low as hers. She blinks and looks up at him in surprise, her smile softening. Before she speaks, he turns her away from a neighbour that is dancing too near and adds, "The Bishop came to your home, he was concerned when he couldn't find you."

This seems to be the wrong thing to say. Suddenly she is stiff and her steps are tense. Her fingers tighten reflexively around his and she brings herself a daring few inches closer. "He sent you to bring me back." Her voice is flat with disappointment and he frowns. "I thought..."

"I wasn't invited," Navarre says with a brief shrug. She presses her fingers against his hand again and he responds by slowing their pace to keep up with the changing tune. "If I was, and I knew you would be here-"

Her smile sparks again and she spurs his palm a little with her carefully maintained nails. "I would not have such trodden-on feet?" Her tone is suddenly airy and she tilts her chin up so she can meet his eyes. He smells lilac and rose when they turn again.

"Have they been so awful?" He asks, smirking. 

She bounces a shoulder in a shrug. "Some worse than others." She glances past him for a moment, then returns to studying his face. "My butler would have told you where I was." She murmurs, tapping his hand with her thumb. "He had instructions."

"I didn't think to ask." Navarre chuckles briefly, then risks stepping closer still. His shirt brushes against her bodice, and she turns her eyes down and away. "What should I do now that I've caught you?"

She laughs instantly, freeing her hand and stepping back to curtsy as the song concludes. "Caught me?" He follows as she leaves the floor, offering his elbow just as she reaches for it. She takes his arm lightly, as though she doesn’t want to get too much of the damp on her fingers. The drift of floral scent crosses him again when he guides her back towards the main hall-she does not hesitate to match his step.

“Would lured be more appropriate?” he asks, resting his hand over hers as they escape the ballroom and stand to the side of the doors. “Snared?”

“Only my attention,” she replies, glancing at the hand over her own. “What are your orders, Captain?” The question is a little softer, as though she isn’t sure she wants to know. He keeps her moving, walking her on towards the hall opposite the ballroom. “It has been a long evening…”

What had the Bishop said? Navarre stares into middle distance as he tries to recall, but the air smells of flowers and rain and her fingers are so warm on his forearm that it takes a moment. “He has asked me to ensure your safe return home. He is concerned for your virtue.”

She arches an eyebrow at him and thins her lips, then looks away at a painting. “And he sent you?” she murmurs thoughtfully after a pregnant pause. Her tone is so controlled as to be a cipher and he stops in his tracks to bring her attention back.

“You think…” He cuts himself off as she turns towards him, her face no longer the picture of consternation. Isabeau’s expression is a challenge, her eyes boldly seeking his, her lips pursed just so, the eyebrow still raised. She stares into him, slowly bringing her hand to rest on top of his. “Mademoiselle…”

“Captain.” Flat. Brusque. 

He watches, trying to read her. He had believed himself as much an expert as anyone could claim to be on the expressions of Isabeau D’Anjou, but this boldness is new to him. There is color in her cheeks and a brightness in her eyes that seems like a dare. She stands so close as to verge on impropriety. The clasp of her hands around his is unyielding, delicate as she otherwise might seem. “May I escort you home?”

Some unreadable emotion passes across her face, there and gone before he can put a name to it. Her smile rises again, one corner of her mouth curving as she turns to look backwards down the hallway. He dodges the temptation to stare at the sweep of her neck and knows he made the right decision when she looks back again and finds him looking exactly where he should be. “You may,” she replies, giving a demure little curtsy and slipping her hands out of his.

They are quick to leave. The doorman drapes Isabeaus cloak about her shoulders as Navarre prepares himself for the deluge, both pulling their hoods up before the doors are opened to allow them to go. She takes his arm to the bottom of the stairs and once Goliath has been delivered by the stablehand, Navarre assists her onto the horses broad back. The stallion immediately picks up his fanciest gait, prompting a peal of laughter from his passenger and the mildest cursing Navarre can muster to calm him to a less jolting walk.

The rain eases as he leads the horse through the streets and the moon breaks the clouds now and again, providing just enough light that they can find their way. Atop Goliath’s back, Isabeau is silent and when Navarre chances a look all he can see is her hood pulled low. He puts his own head down against the weather, grateful that the downpour has slowed. Though the quiet feels less like contentment and more anticipatory, he lets it hang between them unbroken save for the horses hooves. 

When he hears her softly say, “here,” he brings the horse to a halt and looks about, recognizing the street as one just alongside her home. As he turns to help her to the ground, she slips easily from Goliath’s back and lands alongside him. The hood falls away from her face, but she does not flinch from the rain-she looks barely bothered by it at all as she reaches up to push his own hood aside. “Thank you,” she says, that inscrutable expression lingering on her face. She is about to say more but thinks better of it, pressing her lips together.

When they walk together from mass, this is the moment where he shares some small piece of gossip or she tells him about a new piece of poetry she’s read. Instead of saying more, her hand lingers near his jaw, her fingers pinching the fabric of his cloak. He stares down at her, dumb with uncertainty-there should be something to say now, something proper and not related to the warmth that is beginning in his chest again. The rain falls on them both; he can see it trickling into her hair and along her face as it patters down. “Mademoiselle,” he tries, his voice unfamiliar and husky when he speaks. 

Her thumb crosses from the coat collar to the corner of his mouth, stopping him short. She stares at the appendage as if mesmerized, her other hand coming to grip his cloak and pull him nearer. He almost stumbles as she drags him along, her own feet sure as can be when she alights on a stair. He steps in as she releases his cloak, her hands passing alongside his face to caress his cheeks, feather-light. Her palms press to his jaw, guiding him flush with her and pressing her lips to his in one swift motion. His hands find purchase on her waist, the only control he has in the sudden shock of the kiss which is all warmth and fire spoken through the softness of her lips. This is no chaste brush, no delicate courtship dance-she kisses him as though it is her dying wish, and he clings to her with no less intensity. 

“I love you, Navarre.” She breaks away for a moment to say it, though there is no need. When she stretches her arms behind his head, he slides his further around her, locking her close. He musters a sound that is half-sigh, half-grunt, then bends to reclaim her lips once more. 

The time it takes him to regain thought past the burn of his need for her may be eons as far as he knows, but when he is able to catch himself, he withdraws only enough to draw her eye. “I love you, Isabeau,” he murmurs, and she threads her fingers into his hair to pull him down to her again with a sweet sigh of relief.

The night smells like roses and rain.


	4. Virtuous Rejection By The Lady

Months have passed since her arrival in Aquila but the first time she attends mass without her characteristic veil she draws the same attention as a newcomer. The gawking which would normally be so bothersome to her is irrelevant for the first time since she moved from the country estate to the town. Without the veil, Navarre can see her, and that is an exchange she is glad to make. She does not look for him while she is at worship-she imagines she can feel his eyes when they pass over her on his way into the chapel. It warms her to know he is there and with that knowledge she finds herself impervious to the staring. 

She counts the days since Montreau’s celebration in pressed palms, scraps of poetry and stolen kisses. They are not without caution-their only regular meeting is after mass, when he walks her to her home. They speak more casually than perhaps they should, but knights are expected to be kind and good-natured to ladies and Navarre’s manners are impeccable in that regard. His early life at court serves him well in navigating these difficult waters with her-it is clear in the small missives he pens to her when they are apart that he sacrificed a more literary education for a social one. That he is so awkward on paper only endears him to her further, and she carries one or two of the little verses everywhere she goes. 

It is difficult to concentrate on the sermon knowing that he is so close. All she catches are snippets about prudence and thrift, exhortations which she has little use for in her daily life. She spends almost no money aside from the wages of her staff and the cost of her food. If she wanted to curry the favor of the church she could perhaps tithe more, but that is a consideration for another time. For now, every word is one step closer to confession and another chance to be alone with the captain of the guard.

Once the last blessing is spoken, she straightens, very intently not looking at her paramour in his accustomed seat at the front of the congregation. The others filter past her, some looking, some not. She looks at the tapestries overhead instead of her admirers, or fidgets with her gloves while she waits for them to go. She risks a glance once the majority are gone, but Navarre has already slipped into a confessional. Her gaze catches Marquet instead, Navarre’s second in command staring back at her with uncomfortable intensity. She does not give him much to watch-once she finds Navarre missing, she turns away, leaving her seat to attend to her own unburdening.

There is a long silence once she is settled in the booth, and she is just reaching for the handle of the door when there is a soft clearing of the throat from the other carrel. The divider slides slowly back, and a rough voice speaks to her. "Hello, my child."

"Forgive me father, for I have sinned," she begins, then stops, trying to think on what she can confess. As she refused to apologize for her appearance and the reactions of men, she also refuses to categorize her affair with Navarre as sinful. They have no spouses, no parents. They attend church as regularily as anyone can. They have not consummated the affair. She reaches for the easiest choice instead. "I have been prideful," she says, folding her hands. "I have dressed too richly and have caused others to be jealous of my wealth."

There is another long pause, then a huff from the other booth. "Madamoiselle, I believe you gave this same confession yesterday. Were the ten Hail Marys not enough to make you reconsider?" The gruff voice chides her gently, and she can hear a smile in it. She doesn't restrain her answering grin, though she knows she should feel chastened. Clearly she is in too much of a hurry to meet with Navarre-it is ruining her concentration. "Ten more, then, for wasting a few minutes of God's time."

She puts a hand over her mouth to hold back a huff of laughter, then clears her throat. "Thank you, Father," she responds. "I will try to do something more interesting for tomorrow's confession." 

"See that you don't," he answers immediately, still in good humor. "Just the Hail Marys and a quiet life."

She bows her head, breathing in the lingering smell of sandalwood incense, then sits straight once more. “Thank you, Father,” she says, glancing at the screen in case she can catch a look at the priest beyond. He is an indistinct shadow in the darkness of his booth, though there is a sense of roundness about him. If she wishes to seek his counsel in the future, she will have to rely on his voice alone. “I will.”

When she opens the door of her booth, it barely misses the bishop standing just outside. She gasps and grabs for the handle, but he has already raised a hand to stop her. “It is alright,” he intones, watching as she rises and steps free of the confessional. Her eyes remain low, and once she’s on her feet she folds her hands and keeps her head bowed in proper penitent fashion.

“Good morning, your grace,” she says, quiet and modest as she can be. As the months have gone by she has seen him more and more frequently. At first she assumed it to be a function of his role within the church, especially with the stipulation in her fathers will regarding her inheritance. Of late, however, he appears at her door once a week and speaks with her most days after mass. Appearing outside of her confessional is new, but not as much of a surprise as she would like it to be.

“Good morning, mademoiselle D’Anjou.” He takes her elbow without asking, using only his fingertips to guide her away from the confessional and towards the first row of pews as though she is a naughty child. It is difficult to keep herself from looking for Navarre for aid, but there is nothing to be done against the will of the Bishop. “I wanted to speak with you. I have a concern,” he intones gravely.

Her heart pounds and her stomach flips. The warm coals of anticipation turn frosted and sour in her chest. “I am humbled that the church would think so highly of me, your grace,” she replies in the same soft tone. Now she certainly cannot look for Navarre. She hopes with every ounce of her will that he does not approach them, that he sees her with the bishop and leaves to perform his inspection instead of interrupting. “May I ask why?” 

The bishop gestures her down into the pew, keeping her elbow in his fingers so she must face him as she does. His hand trails along her forearm as he releases her, and she draws a long, slow breath to calm herself. He has never touched her before and the effect is unsettling. She nearly starts when he lays his hand on her arm again, her confusion and discomfort at war with her good manners. “I have heard that you are still without regular company, that you avoid social engagements and eschew companionship. Is this true, Isabeau?”

She blinks, struggling to keep up with this unexpected direction. This is a conversation she would have had with her father, not something to be discussed with a priest. Certainly not with the bishop himself. Isabeau stares at the hand on her arm, wishing he would just remove it without these bewildering questions. “I am finding my way, your grace,” she responds, watching his fingers.

“Is there anyone, man or woman, who is gossiping against you or attempting to lead you astray?” he asks, and the hesitation before the last word makes her heart skip. He knows. He must know. Her eyes widen and she takes another long breath, fighting the sudden spear of panic. Though little has been said and even less has been done between them, the cost of revealing the relationship between she and Navarre to the bishop would be far too steep. She could not live with herself if her impropriety cost him his title and position…

“No, your grace. But I am flattered by your concern for me. I give you my word, if anyone should attempt such a thing, it will be known.” She hopes this will be enough, that it will forgive their indiscretion, but she can’t be certain. Bringing her hand to rest atop of his, she lifts her gaze and fixes the smallest possible smile on her face. “Thank you,” she adds, though the expression that meets her when she looks him in the eye is frighteningly intense. He looks as though he might seize her at any moment, so much so that when he raises his hand and rests it on her forehead she nearly flinches. 

“Peace be upon you, Isabeau,” he says, and her name sounds lascivious in his mouth. It makes the skin of her back crawl, and she must force herself not to hurl his hand away from her as she rises to grant him a curtsy. The panic blooming in her leaves an acid taste in her mouth as she tries to find the wherewithal to speak.

“Amen, your grace,” she responds, straightening her back and backing into the aisle. She sweeps her skirts about herself as she turns to make her escape, walking quickly through the church and nearly crashing into the altarboys as she passes the last pew. The doors are thankfully heavy-they slow her enough to make this seem more mannerly than the all out retreat it is, though she hurries down the steps beyond so quickly she risks a fall.

Navarre is waiting at the foot of the stairs for her. Her heart hurts at the sight of him, but the touch of the bishop is too fresh to be dismissed. If they are seen together now, by any gossip or guard, she must make it clear that both her honor and his are intact. When he steps towards her, she recoils, holding up one hand to ward him away. “No,” she says quietly, and when he reaches for her again she steps back. “No, Navarre, no. Not now.” She takes another step, balling her other hand into a fist to steel her resolve. “Never again.” There is no last look. She turns away before he can speak, rushing into the street and around the bend without so much as a glance behind her.


	5. Renewed Wooing With Oaths Of Virtue And Eternal Fealty

_My dearest Isabeau._

He stares at the paper with a deep frown, then carefully marks a comma.  Outside of the tackroom, in the stables proper, he can hear the voices of the other guards as they change shifts.  Though they chide one another for gossiping like washerwomen, they trade tidbits of news from their patrols, the staff of the church and the priests themselves.  Rumor travels as quickly as truth in these walls, and there is no telling which is which without careful consideration.  He usually listens to the chatter but of late he has not felt so inclined.  

One of the younger knights jogs in, bowing clumsily before he selects a bridle from the wall.  Navarre makes a note of it in the ledger, then returns to his letter.  It has been two weeks since Isabeau fled from him on the steps of the church.  He has sent her a letter every day but there has been no reply.  He knows she is still in Aquila-there are lights in her home in the evenings, and she has been seen at late mass in the days since that confusing afternoon.  She wears the veil again (or so he hears from the men who’ve spotted her) and she takes counsel only from Imperius, as unlikely as that seems.  Navarre has not gone to seek her out, either in those late hours or early in the day.  If she desires her privacy, he will give it to her no matter how he yearns to see her again.

_I count the days since last we met and I hope we will meet again soon.  These days without seeing your face or hearing your voice are impossible to bear.  I live in sorrow and woe without you._

He re-reads it, considers adding more, but signs it instead, ‘ _Your Navarre_.’  Folding the parchment, he tucks it into an envelope, then puts it in his coat.  He will deliver it later, once he is on his own way home.  Perhaps the sound of Goliath’s gait along her street will warm her to him.  

There is a small commotion beyond the door, several of the men laughing as one protests.  Navarre emerges to find one of the squires leaned against the wall, a small stack of sealed letters in his hands.  “It is unfair to me that I must constantly be the one to return this correspondence,” the boy is complaining when the captain stops in the doorway.  “He is furious with me, and I do not know what more I can do.  I take the letters, she refuses to open the door, and I return.  Even the servants refuse to take them from me now.”

“Why so many?” one of the knights asks, plucking the top item from the pile.  “She hasn’t replied to a single one.”

Navarre takes another piece of the mail from the squire, the men in the room going quiet as he does.  On one side is the seal of the bishop, bright red wax over the fold of the envelope.  On the other, only the name ‘Isabeau D’Anjou.’  The captain stares at the paper in confusion for a moment, turning it over again.  “The bishop has been sending these?” he asks, frowning.  Why would she turn away correspondence from the church, especially directly from the bishop?  “How many?  Let me see them.”

The lad glances at the other men, then hands over the stack.  “Four since yesterday, Captain Navarre.  Perhaps ten more since the month began,” he says, gesturing for the other to be returned.  As it is handed over, he passes it to his captain, who puts it at the back of the pile.  “Perhaps you could ask His Grace what more I can do?  I do not want this to reflect badly on me, sir.”

Navarre looks up from the stack, frowning slightly.  The bishop is a good man, and if he is so persistently concerned about Isabeau she may be in more trouble than he believes her to be.  “It won’t, Bertrand.  You were only doing what was asked of you.  I will take these to his grace, you have other work to attend to.”  When the squire hesitates, the captain gives him a quick thump on the shoulder.  “Hop to it, boy.  Taking all of these messages must have you falling behind somewhere.”  The lad takes a last dubious look at the letters, then touches his forelock and hurries off along the stable aisle.

Tapping the bundle against his hand, Navarre makes his way from the stable to the church, moving past the chapel to the garden beyond.  It is small but well taken care of, a sunny gap between the church and the residence of the bishop and priests who serve in the chapel.  The patch of green serves as sanctuary and meeting ground between the holy men and the less enlightened, and Navarre is fond of it.  This is where he first received word of his promotion and where he was accepted into knighthood.  He has enjoyed many walks through the grass and meetings with the priests along the bench at the far end.  

There is a canopy there now and beneath it sits the bishop.  He is observing as two priests a short distance away examine manuscripts.  Navarre has to cross the grass and stand within a foot of the man before he is noticed.  The bishop barely looks up at the captain, fixating more on the unlucky man on the left.  "Captain Navarre," the bishop intones.  "What do you want?"

Navarre offers the packet immediately, holding it just within the older man's view.  "I am returning the messages you've sent Mademoiselle D'Anjou."  The bishop's head comes around quickly and Navarre pauses before speaking further.  "Is something wrong, your grace?  Has something happened to her?"

The bishops stare is penetrating, focused not on the messages in Navarre's hands, but on the captain himself.  "You do not know?"  He looks down at the envelopes, their unbroken seals turned up towards him.  "She has shut herself away in her house.  She only emerges to attend church, and she does not linger after service.  She does not even confess in the church-she speaks to Father Imperious in her garden.”  His eyes search Navarre’s, then he flips the envelopes over.  “Where is Bertrand?  Did he see her?”

“She would not open her door, he said.”  Though he was not curious before, Navarre is now.  The bishop’s expression is not one of beatific concern-he looks frustrated, angry, as though Isabeau’s refusals are a personal insult instead of a worrying disregard for the word of the Lord.  The captain wishes he’d thought to ask if any of the messages were opened, but he doubts he will be allowed to read their contents now.  The bishop seems to have the same thought, thumbing through the pile and finding all of them shut.  “I could go,” he offers tentatively.  The bishop’s penetrating gaze snaps back to him and they stare at one another for a moment.  It is the first time Navarre has seen this ferverent intensity in the bishop-the man looks sick, even in the warm afternoon light.  The look borders on an accusation, and when Navarre recognizes this he straightens his back in affront.  

“No.”  Calm settles over the bishop as he takes his eyes off of the captain.  “That will not be necessary, Captain.  You are a busy man.  I will send Marquet and he will brook none of this foolishness.  No one should be so divorced from the church.  Mademoiselle D’Anjou will return to the fold soon enough.”  He wraps one hand around his staff, leaning towards the work of the rightmost priest.  

Navarre stares, the words echoing in his head.  Marquet is a good soldier, but he has no tact-Isabeau will have nothing to do with him, no matter his reasons for approaching her.  He wants to question the bishops intent, or at least suggest a different spokesman, but he senses that this is a decision the bishop will not discuss.  He steps back, giving a short half-bow as he does.  “I will send him to you immediately,” Navarre says, and the bishops gaze flicks sideways to him.  “Your grace,” the captain adds, though he can see he’s too late to avoid insult.  The bishop narrows his eyes, then looks back at the priests.

“You are dismissed, Navarre.  Go with God.” 


	6. Moans Of Approaching Death From Unsatisfied Desire

The beads are slippery in Isabeau’s hand, and thus she loops the rest over her wrist as she prays. Whole rosaries have replaced Hail Marys in her repetoire, repentance for the ‘sin’ she still refuses to confess-she loves Navarre to the exclusion of all others, and he can never know. She begins her prayers after lunch each day, and within the hour Marquet comes to call. It is always the same, every time, his pounding at her door, his shouts at her windows. When her servants try to drive him away, he shouts even more, trying to thrust bundles of paper into their hands. The last time she laughed was the day the butler refused to even offer his hands to wield off the package and ended up kicking the parcel out of the yard.

She can see the red seals from her high vantage point on the second floor and most days the thought makes her sick with panic and confusion. The letters are from the bishop, written by his own hand. The single missive she opened was terrifying, and that was long enough ago that she imagines they have only gotten worse. To see herself so blatantly written of as a thing, given instructions to immediately take vows and leave the secular world behind so her virtue and beauty could be properly protected by the church, makes her skin crawl. If there was any sincerity to the man’s claims of concern for her spiritual health, she might have attempted a polite response, but after three pages of haranguing a few lines of explanation were insufficient. 

Moreso than her concern for herself is her worry for Navarre. Her life is as tied to the church as any of her peers might be, but he is the Captain of the Guard. His duty and honor are woven to the very fabric of the house of the Lord, and in their brief time together it was clear that he truly enjoyed his position. The loss of his status and the regard of his men would be horrible for him. Even the suspicion of the bishop could prove to be too much, and she wishes she could be sure enough of her messengers to send him a note explaining herself. They are known to the church, however, and she knows they are dutiful and good lads. If they were accosted by a guardsman or a priest, they would hand over her correspondence and she and Navarre would be undone. 

And yet.

She accepts the captains letters without pause. They are never delivered to the front door, always to the kitchen and once to the shrubbery next to the gate. They are short, single pages if that, and every one tears and mends her heart. He does not demand anything of her, instead telling her in one of a hundred ways how heartsick he is without her, how he misses her touch, how he frets when he does not see her. Some nights she hears him ride past her home-though most of the men of the guard have Fresian horses like Goliath, the giant black stallion has a gait so distinctive it wakes her the moment she hears him. One day she is certain her sleep-addled self will run to him before she is fully cognizant of what she is doing and it will ruin them.

She rests her thumb against the center bead and murmurs an Our Father. The thumping begins downstairs, right on schedule. She clings harder to the bead, feeling it dig against her fingertips, but it is little solace. Isabeau wants to shout at him, to hurl a spoiled apple like a child, but she knows that any response will go to the bishop and he will take the opportunity to pay her a visit. She is frankly surprised he hasn't already come. Isabeau rises from her kneeling position, unwinding the rosary from her wrist and setting it to one side. As she passes her window, she spots a swirl of black at the corner of the house. It is gone by the time she looks again, but there was no mistaking it's direction-along the side street, where her kitchen door sits.

Isabeau considers this for only a moment, then rushes from her bedroom to the stairs. She moves just slow enough to ensure that the staff is in the main hall, discouraging Marquet, darting past the maids at the door as swiftly as she can. She is in the kitchen in a moment, moving without hesitation to the door. She knows she must have missed him, if it was Navarre at all. There may be a letter stuck in the door frame, or there may be some neighbour strolling innocently down the lane in a new cloak. She does not even know what she will do if he is there-she wants to drive him away as much as she wants to walk from her home and never look back.

There is a soft tap on the door.

Isabeau stands at the threshold, wringing her hands as it repeats. She feels her stomach twist with indecision until the hammering begins again at the front. It startles her, and the distraction drives back her fear. Whoever is beyond her kitchen door is no threat compared to Marquet and the tidings he brings. She takes the handle firmly and pulls, revealing Navarre, dark as a crow, hooded as though that could conceal his identity in the midday sunlight. 

The letter he carries falls from his hand as he realises who has answered. She tries for a moment to remind herself of all of the danger he poses to himself and to her, but the sweet summer air blows the scent of lilac and him across her and she forgets every word save one. "Navarre," she whispers, and her heart hammers so hard in her chest she fears it may break free.

He is frozen for a breath, staring at her wan face and her exhausted eyes. When he says her name, it sounds like a moan of pain, a sentiment she echoes in a soft gasp as he sweeps the door closed behind himself and bears her to the pantry. She clings to him, unable to quite believe that he is truly there until he curls his hand around the back of her neck and draws her in for a kiss. Everything they are unable to say flows between them in the desperately brief embrace and she shudders when he steps away.

"Please. Something," she says, tearing the scarf from her throat and pressing it into his hand. "Please Navarre, I need to know this was not a dream." She is at the verge of tears before he bends and kisses her again, soft as can be. As he draws away, he bends to kiss her hand, then turns it so that he can lay his lips very briefly against her pulse. Isabeau feels so fragile in that moment she may shake herself to pieces at his feet, until he replaces his kiss with a kerchief from his belt and bring her back to her senses. 

He watches as she ties it in place and tugs her sleeve over, starting to speak before the incessant pounding at the front door begins again. They both stand stock still, staring at one another as though memory will ever be enough, until Navarre breaks the moment. He runs his palm across her cheek, then retreats to the door, watching her with every step. It isn't until it is closed between them once again that his gaze leaves her, and she remains until she is certain his footsteps have faded into the distance.


	7. Heroic Deeds Of Valor Which Win The Lady's Heart

There is a bite to the air. On the outside, he knows the armor is cold but behind the helmet, he is boiling. He sucks the chill through the banded faceplate and tips his head, letting his back rest against the rear of his saddle. His presence in armor at this stage of the tournament is a formality, but one he will bear gladly for the sake of esprit de corps. Navarre hazards a glance into the grandstand as the two knights in the tilt charge one another, hearing the heavy thud of the lances as they are lowered just before he spots her. The lady D’Anjou is seated to one side, her hair falling loose around her shoulders. Her dress is a bold blue, easily visible among the throng wearing gold and crimson in accordance with the season. She has not replaced the scarf which is now tied across his chest. Indeed she makes no concessions to the cold of the autumn day, though her dress exposes her throat. 

He wishes for a moment that he could wear her symbol of favor openly, but the risk is far too great. Since their separation was broken, they have found few occasions to speak face to face. Most of their contact is through letters and it is on page after page that Isabeau has told him of the bishops frightening obsession. At first he tried to make excuses, but his denial could not last. His Grace has changed since Isabeau’s arrival, has become angrier and more volatile especially since she’d shrunk from him. If Navarre looks to the stands opposite Isabeau, he knows the bishop would be watching her and if not her, then staring at the captain himself.

Navarre reins Goliath to the side as Bertrand and Francesco replace their defeated fellow guardsmen. He raises his faceplate to see them better, giving a short nod of encouragement when Francesco glances in his direction. The man straightens in his saddle and Navarre takes no small amount of pride in noting that Francesco has adopted the technique Navarre taught him. As Bertrand passes Francesco his lance, Navarre sizes up the young man’s opponent at the far end of the tilt. The knight from Cetus is sprightly, but his position on his horse is far too forward. If Francesco can hit him high, he will almost certainly knock his opponent from his saddle.

As the two men square off, Navarre does look to the bishop. As he expected, the man is staring back at him, not at the joust below. When he is spotted, His Grace does not turn away immediately-he stares at Navarre until the sound of hooves draw them back to the moment. Francesco’s charge is solid and his lance is well-placed. Navarre does not hide his grin when the blow connects just as he hoped it would, sending the knight from Cetus out of his seat. Francesco seems a little more surprised by the result, raising his visor as soon as he slows his horse and looking back over his shoulder. Navarre raises a hand in congratulations, and Bertrand has to knock Francesco in the knee to direct his attention to his captain.

Francesco waves a little giddily, then grips his pommel as Bertrand guides him back towards his tent. Navarre chuckles as the man sways in the saddle. Though the Cetan fell, it's clear he landed a solid blow on Francesco. The knight will have quite the bruise to show off later in the evening. As the knight and squire disappear among the gaily decorated tents, Navarre shuts his faceplate and leans down to tap the page standing nearest on the side of the head. "Boy, fetch me a cup of wine," he says, straightening in the saddle and looking to the stands once more. Isabeau is watching him again, and he can see the blue of her eyes even at this distance. Her smile for him is a wisp and he is glad for the helmet-his grin is invisible to the bishop. 

A hand pats against his thigh. He reluctantly looks away from Isabeau, expecting to see the boy with his cup of wine. Instead, one of the squires bobs in place, his face pale and sweaty. "What?" Navarre prompts, as the youth points back towards the tents.

"Two of the Cetans are at Francesco's tent. They accuse him of an unsporting tilt, sir. Sir Marquet sent me for you." 

Navarre sponges the reins, urging Goliath back out of formation. "Stay here, report to me if the Cetans try anything else," he calls to the lad and his fellows, wheeling his horse around and urging him to a quick trot towards the tents. 

It is not hard to find the quarrel. A half dozen Cetans and the same number of Aquilans are gathered outside of Francesco's modest tent. Bertrand stands in the entrance, facing down the Cetan's lieutenant as the other men mill about. Navarre dismounts, silently glad that his men haven't started trading challenges just yet. Thus far it has been a friendly tournament, and he hopes it will continue to be. 

“Captain Navarre,” Bertrand calls. The Cetans turn to look, several of them standing aside for him. “They say Francesco-”

The lieutenant turns on his heel, clearly expecting a man of smaller stature than the captain. He looks up and up until he is looking Navarre in the eyes, which he obliges by taking off his helmet. “Your man aimed low,” the lieutenant says loudly, crossing his arms over his chest. “He intended a grievous wound to my soldier.”

Navarre hands his helmet to his nearest compatriot and tilts his head. “Did you see the same tilt I did? Francesco took him across the shoulder. It was a solid hit, not attempted murder. It isn’t his fault your knight’s guard is so poor.”

A chuckle ripples through the Aquilans, and Navarre works to maintain a firm expression. The Cetans do not take the laughter well, crowding closer to their lieutenant. Navarre can see several hands coming to rest on weapons as the lieutenant goes red around the ears. "He has a broken arm, and he may never fight again," the lieutenant huffs. "We demand our honor be satisfied. If any among you will defend Aquila for honor or favor..." He trails off, looking at the assembled men. All are quiet, staring at him in amused disbelief, until Navarre raises a hand. 

"For honor, for favor and for the reputation of the man I trained, I will joust whichever man Cetus chooses." Though he is not due to enter the contest until the next day, this is not the sort of slander against his men that he can let pass. He takes his helmet back from the knight he handed it to, waiting for the lieutenants response. The Cetan considers, then nods once.

"We agree to your terms," the lieutenant says gruffly. With a wave of his hand he directs the other Cetan knights back, giving an order under his breath that disperses them to their tents. The Aquilans watch them go, unmoving until Navarre carefully eases the helmet back onto his head. 

"For favor, Captain?" Marquet murmurs as Navarre fixes his faceguard. "Who is your lady?"

Navarre pauses, studying Marquet's expression. The man does not have the control of a courtier. His heavy eyebrows are furrowed together with concentration as he tries to keep his face and tone casual. He may as well have 'spy for the bishop' carved into his forehead. "I am not lacking in interest, Marquet, only in time for such pursuits." The man's face slumps in dismay at Navarre's evasion. "Bertrand, while Francesco is resting, attend me. Elias and Gianni will sit with him. The rest of you are dismissed."

Navarre retires to his tent and with Bertrand's help, he is prepared quickly. His black armor is new for the tournament, gleaming like the carapace of a beetle in the afternoon light. It fits him perfectly, and the armaments he had commissioned match it. Even his lance seems carved from ebony. With Bertrand trailing him, he rides Goliath forth to the tilt. 

The area has been cleared in anticipation of this match. At the far end, Navarre can see a gathering of Cetans preparing an enormous man on horseback. There are no signifiers of rank on his distant opponent, a curious decision on their part. It seems to Navarre as though they are relying on the knight's size, rather than his skill, to assure their victory. 

His own men gather a short distance behind him. He can hear a few of them muttering, making wagers just past his hearing. None seem to be betting against their captain, only bickering over the Cetan's fate. He casts a brief glance to the stands and his heart pounds at the sight of Isabeau. She is fixated on him, eyes bright, jaw firm. Behind his faceplate, he grins fiercely, then draws his glove across his chest. Her love is with him, held secret to his heart. He cannot fail.

Bertrand arrives at his side as Navarre returns his attention to the joust, handing up his lance, then jogging away to a safe distance. Navarre adjusts his grip, casting a look at the knight taking his place at the far end of the tilt. The lance the other man carries looks like a sapling, freshly hewn. “God be with me,” he murmurs to himself, finding the best gripping point on his own lance then raising it high to announce his readiness. Goliath picks up his feet as a counterpoint to Navarre’s signal, and he could swear he hears a welcome ring of laughter from the grandstand. 

At the far end of the tilt he sees the Cetan raise his own lance and settle into his place. Navarre watches intently, letting everything but the opponent and the lane fall away. All that exists is the other knight, Goliath and the barrier. He notes the distant man’s slight slump and his rightward lean, as well as a telltale waver in the skyward lance. Navarre adjusts himself one more time in the saddle and as his heels press into the stirrups, the flag is dropped. 

He has no sense of time in the following moments. It flows past him as he spurs Goliath and narrows his focus to the helmet of his opponent. What the Cetan is doing hardly matters. The black knight brings his lance to bear, aiming for the flattest point near the jaw of the other man as the Cetan drops his own weapon even with Navarre’s belly. He tenses and leans, adjusting his angle to compensate for the Cetan’s clumsy attempt at a dodge, and that is the moment they strike.

The jolt that slams across his gut is briefly less important than the crash of his own lance into the Cetans’s helmet. The polearm buckles against the impact and he has a moment to see the Cetan’s limp body tumble sideways from the horse before his short respite from pain is over. It roars through him, starting in his stomach and radiating outwards. He clings to the pommel of his saddle as he reels back, determined not to fall and grant the Cetan a tie. Goliath, well trained as he is, wheels and walks back to Bertrand as his rider gasps frantically for air. Navarre is relieved of his lance and the reins, and thus is able to raise a hand to the grandstand as he returns to his staging area to await the judges decision. 

Bertrand loosens Navarre’s armor at the waist, giving him room to breathe. As the dark spots that had begun to pop over his vision fade, the captain straightens in his saddle and looks up. The crowd in the stands are chatting amongst themselves, awaiting the verdict of the judge. All, save for one. Isabeau is watching him, hands folded tightly in her lap, ignoring the discussion around her. He can see a flush along her cheeks. Her eyes are wide with fright. He raises his hand again, then rests it briefly against his chest. He can see her hands loosen, one quickly wiping at the corners of her eyes. He smiles, though she can’t see it through the faceplate. He is sure she will find some way to see him tonight, if only to make absolutely certain he is not dead. 

A swell of cheers erupt as the judge gives his verdict. Isabeau rises and applauds with the rest and as he watches her he spots the bishop, looming closeting her back. Her cheerful grin vanishes as the man’s hand comes to rest on her shoulder. Navarre cannot look away when the bishop leans much too close to her ear, his fingers rubbing where they’ve found purchase on her skin. In spite of the distance and his helmet, Navarre feels a chill run down his back when the bishop looks away from Isabeau to him. It feels as though the holy man's eyes have pierced him through. They are frozen for a moment, the bishop murmuring to her, Navarre staring in impotent fury, Isabeau's expression pinched with revulsion. Then Bertrand yanks on the reins and Navarre must look away. His belly burns with pain and sour dread-he knows they must act soon, else the bishop use what leverage he has to separate them forever.


	8. Consummation Of The Secret Love - Part One

Isabeau sits on the edge of the bed, trying with great difficulty to calm her nerves. It is no easy task-tonight is an immense risk for both she and Navarre. She clasps her hands nervously, reminding herself over and over that in the end it will be worth it. After tonight she will have Navarre and he her. They will be bound in the sight of the Lord, married and consecrated as man and wife. They will navigate what follows together, united as one against whatever stands against them.

She bows her head and tries a prayer, recalling Imperius' words to her this afternoon-that so long as God bears witness to their union, there is no sin. She wonders as she prays if she should have told him the whole story, that the man who pursues her with such terrifying intensity is His Grace and not some noble after her estate. Would that have changed his advice? She doubts it. Even the bishop must acknowledge the primacy of the Lord and once their union is blessed he will have no further cause to press her to cleave to the church. A nun cannot be a wife to anyone but Christ, no more than a priest can be a husband. 

The sound of hooves outside speeds her heart, and joy overwhelms her brief melancholy. Isabeau picks up her bag and slips out of the room, padding down to the main floor with as much speed as she can without making a racket. She dashes across the main hall and into the kitchens, pausing to pack some food and wine before she rushes out the door and into the street. The horse and his tall rider are waiting at the appointed place, shadowed by her neighbours windowless wall. She runs to him, wrapping her cloak close as a final precaution against indentification. They exchange no greeting-he leans down and catches her with one arm, boosting her up behind him. Navarre ensures she is in the saddle, her arms tight around his waist, then nudges Goliath into motion. She leans her face into his shoulder, breathing deeply and letting the heavy scent of him push back every doubt and worry.

They do not ride as quickly as she would like, not until they reach the stable where Navarre has stowed the horse Francesco loaned him. She doesn't want to let go of him, not so soon, but moves to the other animal. He will still be with her, she knows. When she is securely on the horse, they continue moving, riding at a gallop to take advantage of the nights cover. The monastery is only an hour away, but it feels like a lifetime to Isabeau. The priests there are politically inconvenient to the bishop, and so they are in a sort of exile-the perfect opportunity for two people trying to avoid the reach of the man. 

Her heart is in her throat again as they arrive at the gate. Even with Navarre’s reassurances, she has been in a state of paranoia too long to trust anyone easily. He dismounts and knocks, looking back at her as he pulls back his hood. He is smiling almost bashfully, and once more hope swells. She loves him too much to lose faith. They will be safe. They will be together. The door creaks behind him and he turns to greet the priest, exchanging brief pleasantries before gesturing to her to join him. 

“Father Ignatio, this is Isabeau D’Anjou,” he says as she dismounts. The priest peers into her hood, bringing his candle higher to get a good look at her, and she stops just short of him in anticipation of the usual reaction to seeing her for the first time. When he smiles beatifically and bows at the waist, she feels the tension in her shoulders ease. They truly are safe here. She slips one hand around Navarre’s arm, then gives a small curtsy.

“Hello Father,” she says, unable to stop her smile when Navarre rests his hand over hers and brings her a step nearer. “Thank you.”

The priest shakes his head. “Navarre has told me of your situation,” he says, gesturing for them to follow him inside. The monastery is much warmer than its construction suggests and filled with a deep quiet at this late hour. A novice stands opposite the door, his eyes fixed on Navarre in awe as the captain of the guard pauses just past the threshold to cross himself. Isabeau does as well, her eyes still on the priest. “Your lot is a difficult one, Mademoiselle D’Anjou, but this is the correct path to take. Once this union is blessed in Gods eyes, everything will be alright. You’ll see.”

Tears prick at the corners of her eyes and she bows her head, taking a moment to compose herself before nodding to the priest. “I know,” she says, her thin smile returning when Navarre squeezes her hand. His faith bolsters her own. “I would like to get dressed...is there a room?” She notices his eyebrows rising and slips her arm free of his, the smile curving wry. “I promise it won’t take long.”

Navarre catches her hand and brings it to his lips, kissing the back before releasing her. Every motion here is easier, as though the suffocating presence of Aquila is loosening its grip on them. “I hope not,” he answers. “I can wait.” She stays a moment longer, studying him as though she is leaving forever and not stepping into a different room to change from her travelling clothes to something more appropriate. 

He is about to speak again when she blinks, dragging herself back from her longing look and following Father Ignatio down the hall. She changes in mid-darkness in a storage closet, lit only by the candle the priest leaves her. Her gown is not a wedding dress, not of the standard her peers would expect, but it is the palest she owns. She keeps her riding boots beneath, sets aside her cloak and her travelling bag on top of a crate, then carefully runs her hands through her hair until it’s settled to a manageable style. This is not the wedding she expected from her girlhood-she expected to marry a knight, her father was explicit about that, but not in a paupers ceremony in the dark of night. 

She fixes her hair again, adjusts the neck of the dress, then emerges with the candle. Whether her father would approve of the circumstances or not, the fact is that Isabeau would marry Navarre in a pigshed so long as they were finally joined. Almost a year of biding and longing, of watching him from afar, of trying to make him leave and begging him to stay has left a deep, indelible mark on her. She could no more stop loving Navarre than she could tear out her own heart. 

He and the novice are gone when she arrives in the foyer again, but Father Ignatio waits near the door. The priest gestures for her to follow, leading her through the halls to a small chapel at the rear of the building. There are no pews in the barren little room, only an altar draped with a cream-white altar cloth and set with the host. To the side stands Navarre, his head bowed and turned away from her when she enters. The novice is next to the door, and when Father Ignatio arrives, the youth hurries to drape a threadbare white stole across the priests shoulders. The boy remains at the door, gesturing for Isabeau to stay as the priest progresses to the front of the room. He mumbles through a prayer while facing the altar, then turns to the others in the room and spreads his arms. 

“We are gathered here tonight to sanctify the marriage of Etienne of Navarre and Isabeau D’Anjou, two souls seeking to become one in the light of the Lord.” He meets Isabeau’s eyes, giving a quick gesture with one hand to beckon her to join him at the front of the room. She folds her hands and approaches, making herself even out her breathing so she doesn’t collapse from the thrill and panic of the moment. When she stands directly in front of the priest, she briefly bows her head. He places a hand on her shoulder and urges her to turn towards Navarre.

When she is facing him, she raises her gaze, meeting his eyes and immediately tearing up at the depth of emotion she finds there. Very few men have looked at her with anything greater than lust or possessiveness, but what she sees in Navarre’s expression is love, pure and true. He brushes at the tears on her cheeks, then takes her hands, stepping closer to tower over her. She feels protected and adored when his smile returns, wanting to lean against him and be engulfed in his embrace, stopping herself short.

The priest has been speaking, though she has no idea what he has been saying until Navarre straightens and gently squeezes her hands. “I do,” he says, nodding once. “In the sight of God and the Church, I do.” She blinks back the tears and squeezes his hands back, rubbing her thumbs along the backs of them. 

“And you, Isabeau? Do you marry this man, in the sight of God and the Church?” Father Ignacio might as well be a mile away, but she hears his question and gathers herself to answer. 

“Yes, I do. In the sight of God and the Church, I marry Etienne of Navarre,” she says, and she feels like she must have shouted though none of the men react. The tears flow again as Navarre releases her hands and puts his arms around her. There is nothing in her world but him as he bends and kisses her. She clutches his shirt in her fists, silently doubling and tripling her vow. She will never let him go, she will never be without him again. Her life from this moment forward is tied to Navarres. She snakes a hand up his chest and around his neck, holding him to her and trying to convey everything she can't put into words with her kiss. When they finally break the embrace she slides her arms around him and burrows her face against his chest, breathing him deeply again and sighing. He kisses her hair and nuzzles his nose against her scalp, then rubs her back slowly. 

"I record this as the date of your marriage," Father Ignacio says, though neither of the lovers before him seem to pay him any mind, "and pronounce you married under the sight of God the Father, the Son Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost." The novice brings him a sheet of paper and with painstaking effort Ignatio inscribes their names and the date, then signs and has the boy make his mark. Isabeau and Navarre cling to one another, overwhelmed by the moment until the novice taps Navarre on the arm pointedly enough to get his attention. 

"You must sign, captain," the boy says, offering the pen. Navarre marks the page, then sets the pen in Isabeau's hand so she can do the same. She writes as clearly and prettily as she can, pushing both paper and pen back to Father Ignatio so she can lean into Navarre again.

The priest's smile saddens slightly as he rolls the paper and hands it to Navarre. "It is as official as it can be," he says. "Go with god, my children, and may your life be a happy one."

Isabeau releases her grip on Navarre just enough to let him put the document in his belt. "Thank you," she says, before Navarre tilts her chin up and kisses her again. She laughs when they part and presses her face into his chest again, grinning hugely. "We should go," she says. The knowledge that they are married is finally settling on her and she is growing giddy quickly.

"Thank you," Navarre says, echoing her as he shrugs his cloak forward to cover both of them. "Where did you leave your things, wife?"

She is radiant at the sound of the word, and even his gruff humor is lighter in the face of it. "A closet, husband." The term of endearment doesn't quite sound right to her, but she supposes she will get used to it. "I'll go and-"

Her bag is set next to her, cutting her off, and the novice stands ready with her cloak. "We don't mean to rush you, you just...I mean..." He tries to explain. Isabeau releases Navarre and accepts her cloak, pulling it over her shoulders and fastening it about her neck.

"It's alright," Navarre says, clasping the boys shoulder. "Thank you as well. You've helped us a great deal. We are in your debt." The novice seems to swell with pride, and he tries to combine a salute and a bow to awkward effect. The captain gives him a final pat, then bends to pick up Isabeau’s bag. “Are you ready?”

She brings the hood up to cover her face, adjusting it carefully, then nods. “I am.”


	9. Consummation Of The Secret Love-Part Two

It is still dark when they reach the cottage, with no sign of dawn on the horizon. Navarre is walking Goliath-the other horse was left with the monks, along with instructions on where he was to be returned to. On the warhorses back, Isabeau dozes, her already small stature making her look tiny in the saddle. For once, Goliath is not dancing. Whether it is from exhaustion or knowledge of the precious cargo he carries, the horse’s gait is as smooth as Navarre has ever seen it. 

He leads Goliath into the yard and drops the reins over a post. The horse huffs and lips at Navarre’s cloak as he unloads the saddlebags and Isabeau’s satchel to one side, then reaches up for the woman. She is sound asleep, and so he gives the saddle a solid tug, sending her pitching slowly sideways into his arms. She awakes with a jerk just as he catches her, grasping for his cloak and looking around in surprise. “Did I sleep the whole way?” she asks in a soft, groggy voice. He kisses her as an answer, then gently sets her on her feet. 

“Only the last stretch,” he says, making sure she’s conscious enough to be steady before he lets her go. Even with so little sleep, she comes around quickly, taking a few steps away from him and the horse to look at the small cottage and the stable beyond. “This was my fathers,” he explains, gesturing towards the rear of the building. “Before he came to Aquila, this was where he lived and trained. No one lives here now.” She looks at the shuttered windows with a touch of doubt, then bends to pick up her bag. 

“How long can we be here?” she asks, watching as Navarre takes the saddle off of Goliath, then takes the reins once again. He casts a look back at her, then urges Goliath towards the barn. She follows, yawning into the back of her hand. It is a gesture that is more at home at court than in a stable, and Navarre chuckles. She is ever the lady. Isabeau narrows her eyes at him and stops in the doorway, watching and adjusting her satchel’s strap as he goes about putting the horse away for the night.

“We have two days,” Navarre says, checking to be sure the feed he brought the day previous is still where he left it. He doles out a healthy portion to the horse, then checks the water and shuts the stall gate. “And then we go back to Aquila.”

She looks up and away, her eyes tracking the moon as he sets the saddle on a bench and hangs the bridle. “And then…”

“We decide.” Navarre emerges from the stable, dusting his hands off on his cloak, and puts one arm around her shoulders. “How we will live and what we will do.” He waits until she looks at him again, that all-too-familiar fear rising in her eyes. Finding a way to eliminate the source of that fear is at the top of his list once they are back in Aquila, but for now they are far from the bishop, and safe. “Isabeau…”

She bows her head, then puts a hand on his chest. “I’m sorry,” she begins. He shakes his head, then stoops to pick her up off of her feet. Penitence is replaced by surprise, and she gives a little kick when he jostles her. “Navarre!”

“Two days, Isabeau. We don’t bother with Aquila or anyone within it for two days,” Navarre intones as he carries her towards the house. She peers at him as though she might argue again, then puts her arms around his neck and kisses him on the cheek. He is heartened by her willingness to trust him now, to relax when he touches and holds her. As he reaches the threshold, he pauses to look her over in the moonlight. She is silver-pale, watching him expectantly from her secure position in his arms. “I love you.”

“I love you,” she responds, tucking her knees so he can carry her through the door without too much difficulty. He does not pause, but walks straight to the bed that takes up one corner of the small room and deposits her there, earning a giddy giggle. She releases his neck only after another kiss, then sits up to watch as he sets her satchel on a side table. Her hand comes to rest on the neck of her dress while he lights the fire he laid on his previous trip, smiling knowingly. “You are very prepared,” she comments, unclasping her cloak and draping it across the end of the bed. The blankets are soft against her knuckles-she runs her hand back and forth to get the feel of them.

As the fire catches and grows, he gets to his feet. “I’ll be right back,” he says over his shoulder, taking off his gloves and setting them on a chair. “Don’t go anywhere.” She watches as the cloak follows. 

“I won’t,” she promises, removing her boots and setting them next to the bed. He ducks outside to retrieve the saddlebags and she immediately pulls the dress over her head, leaving herself exposed and nude in the small room. She sets it aside, then puts her cloak over it, pulling back the blankets on the bed and touching the sheet beneath. It is thinner than the other blankets, but she can tell it will be warm. When the door opens and shuts again, she turns to face him, only to find he is busy securing the entrance. 

“I brought some food, some wine. I know you did as well. Are you-” He turns about and stops in place, the saddlebags thumping to the floor by his feet. She puts her arms around her waist as he studies every naked inch. When his gaze meets hers again, he looks almost stricken. “Ah,” he says, unable to think of much more.

"We can eat when it's light," she says softly, padding across the floor towards him. His eyes roam and her initial inclination towards bashfulness is quashed. She likes the way he looks at her now, as though he doesn't believe she's real. It makes her feel bold, and she suddenly wants very badly to feel his skin against hers. "I would like to share a bed with my husband before morning." 

He can't seem to get himself to move. She stops in front of him, considers for a moment, then reaches to undo his shirt. It is slow, careful work, but he does nothing until she gently separates the fabric and exposes his chest. Isabeau pushes the shirt over his shoulders and down his arms, barely touching him as she does. He shakes himself free, then undoes his belt, giving his pants a push over his hips. She closes the distance between them, putting one hand on his chest and the other on his waist as their bodies meet. To him, she smells like rose and lilac under fresh air; to her, he smells like thyme, leather and a tinge of sweat. 

She rests her forehead against his collarbone as her hand meanders his ribcage, closing her eyes and taking in this wash of new sensations. He does his best not to interrupt her exploration, sliding his hands along her back to settle at her waist. With careful fingers she catalogs every scar along his chest and arms, then rubs her palms up and over his shoulders. She locks her fingers behind his neck and pulls herself flush with him, feeling him pulse against her belly. Her next breath is shaky with the unfamiliar tension she feels deep inside, and it only grows when Navarre's hands smooth up and down her back. She makes a soft sounds of pleasure in the back of her throat, then presses her lips against his neck. His hands move again, his fingers grazing against her sides and sending delicious tingles all through her. Every touch feels as though it is waking her from a long sleep-by the time he cups the back of her head to guide her into a kiss, she is shivering with anticipation.

She refuses to surrender his lips once they've met hers, and so he begins maneuvering her backwards to the bed, kissing her all the while. If he stops too long, he becomes enraptured by her softness and delicacy, only to resume moving when she brushes against his manhood and reminds him of their mutual goal. When they reach the bed he leans in against her, catching her under the knees and lifting her onto the mattress. Her protest is a moan dwindling to a sigh when he draws back from her, granting her a moment to find a comfortable spot before he descends.

She puts her hands on him again as he bows his head to kiss her throat and then her chest. Her fingers twist in his hair and catch on his shoulder as he moves along her body to her breasts, and the gasp she makes when he runs his hand across them earns a look of wide eyed surprise from both of them. He only pauses a moment before he tries it again, following his hand with a progression of slow, careful kisses. She bites her lips and squirms under his ministrations, riding this unexpected wave of sensation as he tries to find similarily sensitive spots with his hands. 

His mouth remains at her breast, lips and tongue laving across the peak of it and sending shock after shock of pleasure through her. His hands on her waist, her hips, her ribs do not compare to the twinges he is coaxing out of her with his kisses. Squirming turns to writhing as her body tries to find relief, and his hands pass from her hips to her thighs. He switches from one breast to the other as his hands run along the outsides of her legs, and when he runs his palm up the inside of one while his mouth finds purchase, she cannot restrain the moan that escapes her. Her hands, still clinging to his head, pin him in place as she tries to find a way to beg for that again, but he obliges before she can find the words. This time his fingers press very briefly between her legs, and she feels as though she might be dying. The twinge is kin to pain, but it makes her want more, not less. The hand at his shoulder moves to his arm, clumsily trying to direct him to repeat the motion. He fumbles against her inner thigh, finally pressing his hand to what she is sure is the actual core of her body. She shudders and arches her back, her breathing turned to panting under his careful hands.

Navarre finally draws away from her breast, holding his hand where she's put it as he crawls overtop of her. He knows what comes next by rumour and hearsay, mostly, and he is briefly nervous. Isabeau tries to pull him back to her, and he slowly begins to descend. His hand moves from her body to his, guiding himself against her until their rocking and writhing finally aligns him with her. He gasps when he slips inside of her, nearly drowned out by her matching outcry, then bends to catch her in a kiss as he moves.

Her hands scramble against his back at this new crash of sensations, finally coming to rest on his arm and hip. The initially strange sensation of penetration becomes a rising and falling rush of pleasure as he rocks against her. She clings to him and kisses him desperately, wanting him to continue this forever if he can. All she wants is more and more and more of him now. Her legs tighten around his waist, heels driving against his body in encouragement. Her hands clench with each thrust, refusing to let him withdraw any more than he has to.

He drives himself against her, more by instinct than by knowledge. At first he was concerned about hurting her, but she has made it very clear that his partial weight on top of her is more than welcome. Now propped up on his elbows, he huffs harsh breaths against her neck when he isn’t kissing her. The tension in his lower body builds every time he rocks in and out, draining his ability to think. He closes his eyes at the sudden rise of sensation, gasping when she tries to drag him all the way down to her. He sinks as deep as he can, shouting wordlessly when her body suddenly clutches around him. It feels like a wave of pleasure drags him under, taking him to a transcendent moment of bliss, and then to darkness.

Consciousness flows back with Isabeau’s soft breath in his ear. He finds he’s collapsed half on top of her, but an attempt to shift his weight wakes her. She clings to him with one hand, murmuring ‘no’ before nuzzling in against his shoulder and resuming her slumber. Rather than jostle her again, he kisses her temple, then haphazardly drags the blankets around their tangled legs. Sleep takes him quickly as the sky begins to lighten beyond the shuttered windows.


	10. Endless Adventures And Subterfuges Avoiding Detection-Flight

Isabeau has never been a heavy sleeper. Navarre has learned quickly to let her sudden startles pass without response, for she is always easily lulled back to rest once she’s identified the sound that woke her. That is why they spend most nights in her home, Navarre coming through the kitchen after dark-she can identify most every noise immediately. When she jerks awake on the new moon eve a week past their wedding, Navarre barely moves. His arms tighten around her waist as he draws a long, snoring breath, then exhales into the pillow. 

She raises her head, blinking in the dark as she searches for the sound once again. At first the night is unhelpfully vacant of noise, or at least of anything that stands out. Isabeau nestles her head against Navarre’s shoulder, prompting another snore that nearly drowns out what awoke her in the first place.

Hoofbeats.

She puts a hand on his chest as she lifts herself to one elbow, considering the window. There is no denying that there are horses in the street outside now-she can hear one of them worrying at its bit, clacking the piece of metal around. A third set of hooves joins the first two, and her pulse picks up speed. With great care she removes Navarre’s arms from her waist, then slips from the bed and approaches the window, fixing the neck of her shift. The windows are always shuttered now, as they have been since the bishop first began his campaign. She is normally loath to open one, but a sick feeling is rising in her stomach and she must know. She takes the shutters in one hand and pulls them back, peering into the street below. From the ring of light surrounding a single torch, three church knights on horseback stare back up at her.

Both she and the knights freeze for a moment. The panic turns to furious terror as she tries to identify them, only to see they’ve wrapped cloth around their faces. For a single second Isabeau does not care at all about the obvious reason they are at her door in the middle of the night. She is enraged on Navarre’s behalf, that the men he loves so well are such craven cowards that they cannot even give him the dignity of knowing who has betrayed him. Then the shortest of them hands the torch to another and dismounts. 

“Navarre, you have to run.” She slams the shutter and scrambles to the bed, catching his shoulder. Shaking him hard, she glances at the door to the room, waiting for the inevitable sound of her main floor doors breaking down. “Navarre! WAKE UP!” She jostles him with a knee and he comes around in confusion, looking past her for the threat that must be present and finding none. “There are knights. You have to run,” she says, already backing off of the bed and grabbing for a robe to wear over her shift. “If you go now, you will be at your fathers lodge before sunrise.”

He pauses in the middle of pulling his breeches on, casting a look at her over his shoulder. “You’re coming too.”

“He wants me. If he has me, he will leave you alone.” She cinches the waist of the robe and rummages along the edges of her dresser. “We’ve talked about this.”

“You’ve talked about this. I did not agree to leave you behind.” He secures his pants, then fumbles for a shirt.

“I will be fine, Navarre.” She pulls a cloth-wrapped packet from the side of one drawer then unbinds it, freeing a knife from its confines. “And if God is with me, I will not be with him long.” They are both cut off by the sound of a fist hammering against the front door, and Isabeau shoves the knife into her belt emphatically. The rhythm is far too familiar. “Marquet,” she says, narrowing her eyes at the door to the landing. 

Navarre stands and moves alongside her, pulling the shirt over his head. “We’ll go out through the front. They’ll be expecting us to try the kitchen.” She looks up at him, ready to protest, but he catches her eye and her hand at the same time. “I will not leave you. Never again, and never with him.”

She gives his hand a gentle squeeze, then slips her fingers free. "Then we should go now. Is Goliath-"

"With Antonio. And all of my armor." The thumping on the door interrupts him again. She reaches into the dresser and grabs a handful of clothing, not really caring what she has as she stuffs the lot into her satchel and slings it over her shoulder. Proper formal wear is not in her immediate future-perhaps not in any future of hers. The last thing she finds is the paper inscribed by Father Ignacio. That goes as deep into the bag as she can bury it, hoping to protect it against the journey to come.

The door rattles, and Navarre opens the one that leads to their chamber. He steps out first, gesturing for her to follow once he's sure it's safe. She looks past him, checking the kitchen door and then the front door over his shoulder as they hurry down the stairs. It is still held fast by the bar that secures it at night, and the kitchen seems similarly undisturbed. When they reach the foyer, Navarre moves directly to the door, resting a hand on it as Marquet pounds on it again. As he formulates a plan, she looks to the arch beneath the stairs and is unsurprised to see the butler standing at the ready. 

She meets his eyes and shakes her head slowly. He has been a good and loyal servant, but she will not allow him to face armed knights on her behalf. Instead, she reaches to touch his shoulder. “If I can, I will return,” she whispers quickly. “Maintain the house until…” She looks at Navarre, who is listening intently to Marquet moving beyond the door. They have only had a week as husband and wife and she already mourns this place as their home. It is the one remaining thing she can withhold from the bishop, though she can’t be sure how well the laws of men will fare where the laws of God have failed. “Our home must never go to the church,” she amends. “I would rather it burn.” The butler’s lips thin, but he gives a sharp nod just as Navarre tries to draw her attention. “Goodbye. If I can return, I will.”

Navarre waves her over to the door, positioning her at the handle. She does not need much more prompting than that, setting her hands on the bar and bracing her feet in preparation. He stands slightly back and to one side, waiting for the knock to come again. When it does, he nods sharply to Isabeau. She wrenches the bar free and heaves the door open as quickly as she can. 

Marquet barely has time to recognize Navarre before the captain has charged over the threshold and hurled him into the street. "You swore an oath," Navarre bellows as he gives chase, crashing down onto Marquet and landing a heavy punch across the man's jaw. "To me, to The Lord, you swore an OATH you miserable wretch!"

Isabeau pauses in the doorway-there was no time to plan beyond Navarre incapacitating Marquet. The two collide in the dark of the street and she can hear the shouts of the other knights as they realise they have been duped. Soon it will be three against one, and she will be unable to stop them from doing as they will to her husband. 

Rather than run to Navarre’s aid, she grabs her cloak and dashes to Marquet's horse, grabbing for the reins and hurling herself at the saddle. The animal is hard to climb but she gets her foot into a stirrup, plants her other knee as far over his back as it will go and gives the warhorse's head a hard yank with the reins. The beast turns with a protesting whinny and she drives her loose heel into it's flank as hard as she can. 

There is no dignity in her position atop the horse as it bolts towards the brawling men. She sprawls over the huge saddle, a fistful of reins in one hand, the other locked around the pommel. The leg that didn't quite make it to the stirrup curves around the back of the saddle, keeping her just barely in place. She has little hope of steering the animal once it's in motion, but that is not the point. She is not escaping-she is bait. Isabeau looks over her shoulder just once, long enough to catch the attention of the two other men, then she faces forward again and gives the horse another prod. They turn to run for their horses immediately, leaving the other two to their fight.

At the moment Isabeau and the horse gallop past, Navarre has Marquet on the ground, his sword arm stretched painfully behind his back. A wise man would submit, but the captain knows his second all too well. Marquet is too driven to take the wise path. The guardsman tries to lash out with his feet and Navarre responds by shoving the arm forward, beyond resistance. The captain feels it pop, then Marquet's grip on the sword slackens and he screams in pain. Navarre releases him immediately, grabbing the blade and hurling it away in disgust. He heaves himself to his feet, shoving his whimpering opponent back against the wall of the house as the two other guardsmen round the corner on horseback, orient themselves, then charge after his wife.

“You are a shame to the church and your father,” he says, as Marquet cradles his arm and moans. “You should hope I never see you again.” Navarre does not wait for a response. He looks down the lane to see where Isabeau has led the fools who are chasing her, then runs around the corner to retrieve Goliath and his things. Antonio has been his good friend since they took their oaths. He fell out of the direct service of the church long ago and that, along with the close proximity of his home to Isabeau’s, has made him an invaluable friend these days. Navarre does not bother his compatriot-he slips into the stable, pulls his chainmail shirt over his head, puts bit, bridle, saddle and bags onto Goliath, then hauls himself onto the horses back to give chase. 

He follows in the direction she initially went, gambling that Isabeau won’t have bothered to do much other than keep her horse in motion to give him time to follow her. Goliath is more directed and faster than the other animals, even on the cobbles of the town. Navarre rides low, sword drawn, watching for the torchlight that will show him where the others have gone. When he locates it, he nudges his horse to cover even more ground. He knows that the street opens to a square at the point he can see the light, and it worries him that it no longer seems to be moving away.

Shortly, he can see why. The more experienced men have cut Isabeau’s flight short, boxing her in. Now the horse dances in a circle in the square as the knights try to press her into a corner. Navarre smirks ruefully under his helmet-Isabeau is seated securely on the saddle now, and she brandishes her knife at the knights even as they force her mount to give ground. What man could not be proud of his wife for showing such spirit? As one of them tries to grab at Isabeau’s reins, Navarre raises his own sword and spurs Goliath to a charge. 

He drives the horse between Isabeau and the guardsman like a wedge. The other man has no choice but to reel back with his mount, the horse trying to get a nip at Goliath on the way by. Navarre peers at the face below the helmet before the other man brings his horse around to square up with the captain from a more respectable distance. A man can disguise himself, but a mean, pale horse is much harder. "Dorian," he says in a conversational growl. The other man seems eager to shed the facade, removing his mask the moment Navarre names him.

"Captain," Dorian says with a tap of knuckles to forehead. It is not a salute, but a mockery. "What are you doing with a lady in her nightdress at this late hour?"

Navarre does not need to look to recognize Isabeau's indignation at Dorian's implication. Her horse fidgets in place, likely because it's mistress dug in her heels. "What are you doing bashing down a lady's door at this late hour?" His counter-question garners a smirk from Dorian, who looks back at his fellow knight.

"Hardly a lady now that you've been after her, Captain," Dorian chuckles. Navarre hears Isabeau huff with anger and holds out a hand to placate her.

"I'll thank you not to speak ill of my wife," he answers, and the other rider moves in closer to them. 

"Forgive me, captain, but I do not recall attending the wedding," he says, his tone even and absent of lasciviousness. Navarre's shoulders slouch at the sound of his voice and he lowers his sword. He had hoped that the third soldier would be another, but Elias is a man of impeccable faith and intense loyalty to God above all. That he has adopted the cause of the bishop instead of his captain is disheartening.

“We were married a week ago at the Cetus Abbey by Father Ignatio,” Isabeau says, and the quiet of her voice is telling to Navarre. She is playing to the guardsmen, the knife put away, all pretty eyes and demure posture even though she sits atop a stolen horse in her nightgown and robe. “If you can read, papers were signed that night to prove it.” Navarre hears her horse sidle a few more steps back and realises that there is a clear avenue of escape just past Elias. He wishes there was a way to indicate that she should hold. 

With half of his face still masked and the dark of night concealing the rest, Elias is unreadable. When he moves, it is to urge his horse even closer to Navarre. “Do you swear before God that she tells the truth?” he asks, the light of the torch Dorian carries glittering in his eyes. Navarre itches to ask him what the bishop said to send them off tonight, but they have wasted too much time already. “Be sure of your answer, captain.”

“I swear to God and on my fathers sword, Elias. We are married in good faith.” He watches those eyes intently as they look past his shoulder to Isabeau. Elias stares for some time, then turns back to Dorian. 

“I have doubts, brother,” Elias announces, pacing his horse backwards. “I believe the bishop owes us an explanation.” 

"Then you and His Grace can chat over a mug of tea once we take them to him," Dorian replies, spurring his horse into a lunge and bringing the torch down hard towards Navarre's head. He brings his sword up just in time, parrying the strike and sending the bludgeon tumbling to the ground. Dorian kicks at Navarre as he tries to draw his own blade, but in close quarters he is the captains inferior. Navarre uses his free hand to push the sword back to the scabbard, then jabs one toe firmly into the white horses flank. Dorian's mare squeals and prances to and fro, her eyes rolling as she fights Dorian's control of her reins. "Elias!"

In the heat of the moment, Navarre does not hear Isabeau move. When Elias tries to bring himself around to Navarre's other side, she is in his way. His sword, already drawn, levels with her throat. "You will come with us, my lady," he says. It sounds like an apology more than an order. Her horse sidles away from Goliath as Dorian wrenches himself free and punches Navarre in the shoulder. 

"I will not," Isabeau states bluntly. "Do you have the will to strike down a woman, Sir Elias?" Navarre answers Dorian's blow with a smack from the butt of his sword. "Did you listen when His Grace spoke my name? Did it sound like the words of a man speaking respectfully of a lady?" The next swing of Dorians goes wide. Navarre lurches halfway out of his saddle to grab the man by the throat and hurl him from his horse. Elias' eyes do not leave Isabeau's. "Or did he sound like he was sending you to fetch a whore?"

Elias' sword remains steady a moment longer, then he sheathes it. His expression is still behind his mask as he guides his horse a step back. "If I am satisfied with the answers His Grace gives, you will see me again."

Isabeau watches him intently as Navarre gives Dorian's horse a whack with a glove. The animal dashes off into the night without hesitation, abandoning her master groaning on the ground. Navarre brings his horse even with Isabeau's, sheathing his own sword as Elias has done. "Then this will be goodbye," Navarre says, offering his hand to his fellow knight.

Elias nods, accepting the handshake. "Go with God Navarre, Lady D'Anjou." He holds his place as the lovers pass, lowering his eyes deferentially until they are gone.


	11. Endless Adventures And Subterfuges Avoiding Detection-Respite

The horse staggers and that is all of the warning Isabeau has before the animal stumbles off of the road. She kicks free of the stirrups and slides off of the saddle, dismounting just before the horse smacks sideways into a tree. It is difficult to stay standing, since she is sore from so many hours in the saddle. The last two have been spent half-asleep and now that she is on the ground again her body is practically screaming to fall the rest of the way into a blissful doze. She hears Goliath approaching as she watches her horse walk away, too bone tired to stop it.

“Isabeau?” She turns at the sound of Navarre’s voice. It hurts to look at him, to see the weight he carries because of her so naked on his face. They have barely spoken since they rode from Aquila, and she wishes they had time to rest and unburden themselves. She can read him well enough to know that he feels the same. That is enough to keep her on her feet, though she sways until he reaches down and rests a hand on her shoulder.

“I’m tired, Navarre. So is the horse. We should let it go.” She puts her hand over his. Though the other animal is still close, she knows she has no chance of catching it. They have ridden from night to day to night again, every glance backwards spying a distant sign of the bishops pursuit. She is exhausted past hysteria, past fear, past hate. Those things may return once she’s had some rest, but for now she is numb to anything but the need to continue on. 

“The torches have stopped,” Navarre observes. He bends and puts an arm around her, then brings her up behind him. Goliath groans at the added weight. “If we can find a place to hide, we may be able to get some sleep."

She wraps her arms around his waist, her spirit buoyed by his optimism. Since midday she has felt something heavy in the air, a sensation of impending doom. That it has not touched Navarre gives her some hope. "Only an hour or so," she agrees. "And soon. Goliath needs it more than we do."

Navarre slips his hand into hers and gives the horse a nudge with his heels. “Only an hour,” he echoes, using the reins to steer the horse onto the road. Isabeau watches as Marquet’s horse sinks to the ground, closing its eyes and flicking its ears as it takes the rest she has denied it, then leans her head against Navarre’s back and closes her eyes. She concentrates on the warmth of his hand and the smell of him, trying to save these things for herself as a squirrel stores for the coming winter. Sleep does not take her, though she has trouble opening her eyes again when Goliath comes to a stop after several twists and turns. She can’t say how long they rode, but when she does rouse, they are just outside of the remains of a small keep. Navarre lets her dismount first, slipping from Goliath’s back immediately after she does. He removes the saddle, blanket and bags as one piece, then the bridle, dragging the lot into the crumbled foundation and stowing it behind a wall. 

She retrieves some food from Navarre’s bag as she inspects the inside of the building, carrying the meager parcel of bread and cheese up the stairs. The back half of the structure seems secure-it is the front that has partially collapsed. Isabeau finds the rearmost room and sets about preparing a resting place for them. Her cloak is laid out on the floor first, then her robe. She sets the food at the head-end, laying it out on the cheesecloth it was wrapped in, then sits. As she removes her boots, Navarre steps in, surveying her preparations before seating himself next to her. He shrugs out of his own cloak, dropping it over her shoulders. The gesture earns him a thin smile, then she leans her head against his arm, putting an arm around his waist as he discards his own boots. “I love you,” she murmurs.

He unbuckles his chestpiece and pulls it over his head one-handed, the other arm dropping over her shoulders. “I love you,” he replies, removing his gloves and putting them on top of his armor. “You should eat.” The exhaustion hangs over both of them in a pall, but he has more experience with this degree of ill treatment. Isabeau has never had to wear a full suit of armor for a whole day of drills. When she doesn’t immediately pick up something, he tears her a chunk of the bread and breaks the cheese into pieces. 

They eat quickly and in silence. She finishes first and folds the cheesecloth, tucking it into the pocket of her robe, then shuffling Navarre’s cloak around to spread it over them like a blanket. Chewing his last bite, he lays down to make her task easier, and she immediately tucks herself against him under the cover. His hand strokes along her back when she presses her face into his chest, her fingers slipping under his shirt to reciprocate. They breathe one another and when Navarre bends to kiss her, she has already turned her face up to meet him. There is no haste to what follows between them. He is gentle and she is tender, and when it is over they fall into a deep sleep, still entangled.


	12. Endless Adventures And Subterfuges Avoiding Detection-The Curse

It is still dark when she wakes, though she is certain they have overslept. She does not bother with listening to identify what brought her from sleep-she digs her nails into Navarre's side instead, muffling his waking grunt with the cloak. In spite of their need to move immediately, she risks a moment for a kiss. The sense of impending doom has returned, rising in spite of his closeness. When he breaks away, she stares at what little she can see in the dark, trying to etch him into her memory before whatever fate lies beyond the door consumes them.

He puts his armor on loosely, then his boots, then pulls the cloak from her with an apologetic look. Isabeau has already fixed her dress and cloak, her robe folded to one side. If they do not have to run immediately, she intends to change to something less impractical. She tugs on both boots, then accepts Navarre's hand to bring her to her feet. He looks to the door once she is standing, then makes a gesture suggesting they slip out of the room and down the stairs. She keeps his hand in hers, nodding agreement, and follows him into the hall and down to the remains of the foyer. 

It is still, and the calm is unnatural. Navarre's grip on her hand tightens, and Isabeau moves closer to him. She knows he is fully alert now, as each footstep is quieter than the last. They progress to the foot of the stairs without incident, Navarre immediately turning his attention to the open space and rubble. The quiet only seems deeper among the ruined section of the building. Isabeau surveys the dark spaces quickly, then turns towards the place they left their gear and immediately tightens her grip on Navarre's hand.

Everything is gone. Isabeau chokes down a sob as fear shocks through her. Navarre is unable to offer any comfort-his grip on her is as tight as it can be without harm when he spots what she has already seen. They are briefly still as portraits, then, off in the gloom of a short hallway, a boot scrapes on the floor.

Navarre nearly forgets he has her hand. His fury at this mad pursuit overflows in a second. He draws his sword, but his attempt to rush the intruder is interrupted by Isabeau determinedly dragging him back to the stairs. She dashes up them as quickly as she can, forcing him to follow her rather than fight who knows how many men in the dark. Though she shares his anger, her fear of what these disloyal dogs will do to him is far greater. He counts five grey-cloaked men before she drags him into the second floor hallway they've just abandoned. Moonlight leaks through the holes in the roadside wall, giving them just enough light to see where they are stepping. He would be happy with this perfectly defensible position, but Isabeau pulls him onward, trying to find some other way out.

"There was a hole in the second last room," she whispers to him, pulling him through the doorway and pausing at the edge of the gap. It looks dangerous top to bottom, but his revised count of pursuers numbers them at six. Better to risk running than be captured so easily. Isabeau finally releases his hand and gives him a push towards the hole. "You first, I'll follow."

He doesn't argue. He trained these men; if any of them have a brain in their heads one of them is on the main floor just in case. Navarre climbs down as quickly as he can, holding up one hand to help her after him. He hears the shouts of the men above as she vanishes, but there is no time to gloat about their cleverness. When she is secure, he rushes ahead. No matter how the men come back down to the ground floor, he and Isabeau have a lead. They can’t waste a second.

The sentry is unprepared-Navarre bursts out of the darkness at speed, crashing into the guardsman and sending him unconscious to the floor. Isabeau is right on his heels, sprinting as fast as she can for the wide-open door. Even without tack, Goliath can be ridden, at least long enough to get to a safer place. If they can get to the horse, their escape is a certainty. He scrambles after her, keeping his sword low and to one side in case the troop in the keep has more backup. 

There is no time to slow down, even though he hears her gasp the moment she is through the door. He is only few steps behind her, but those steps are costly. He doesn’t see what hits him, only the burst of stars in his head that results from the blow. Navarre tries to grab the weapon, but it is withdrawn too quickly. Something heavy crashes into his side, the brunt of the blow taken by his poorly prepared armor, then there is a hand knotting in his hair and a fist cracking across his jaw. 

He sucks in a deep breath and bucks backwards, taking the man who has his scalp to the ground with him. Though he is in a world of pain, he thrashes and roars like a madman, sacrificing a patch of hair to get his hands around the throat of the fool who grabbed him. Navarre has a sense that there are men shouting at him, but all that matters is this one in front of him. He gets his fingers tight around the guardsman’s neck and squeezes until the kicking stops. Blows rain down along his shoulders and head, but the pain means very little now. Once the first man is out of the fight, he throws himself at the next to take a swing. 

This is not a fight for honor-it has not been since he saw Marquets face in Aquila. This is not a fight for freedom either-they have captured him at least, and almost certainly Isabeau as well. This is a fight to make every one of these men regret the path they have taken. He breaks fingers, bites into arms, stomps his feet down against their knees. When they catch his arms and pummel his belly, he spits and kicks until they cannot hold him any longer. He forces them to beat him to the ground and it costs every man in the attempt.

Isabeau, gagged and held firm by two guardsmen, can do nothing for him. When they finally knock him unconscious, she sags between her captors, trying to twist free and failing against their superior strength. She was pathetically easy to capture compared to Navarre-they had her in hand the moment she came through the door. It was only as they were dragging her away that she realised escape had been impossible-there were fifteen of them, to trap two.

She watches through tears as they strip Navarre of his armor, then roll him over and tie his hands. His cloak and chestplate are thrown onto a wagon with the rest of their things, his sword used to brace the leg of a man he injured. They clear a space alongside the saddlebags, then tie Navarre to one of the boards of the cart. She is so intent on observing how he is treated that she is taken by surprise when one of the men who ambushed them in the keep throws her discarded robe at her feet. 

“Do you need that, Lady?” he asks. She braces her feet on the ground and tries to push herself further away from him when he crouches to pick up the clothing. “If not, I think it might have a certain interest for the bishop.” Her lip curls in disgust, which seems to strike him as especially hilarious-he laughs as he shakes it out and holds it up in front of her, then turns and throws it into the wagon over Navarre’s battered face. “Till then might as well give the Captain something nice to nap with.”

“Leave the Lady be,” one of the others says. He is unwounded, having remained on horseback while the others were struggling with Navarre. His bearing suggests he is likely their commander. "His Grace was very specific in his orders.” He casts a look at the men as they gather their injured and finish scouring the inside of the keep. Indicating two of those who were also spared having to fight Navarre, he gestures to Goliath, tied to a tree nearby. The horse’s attitude mirrors Isabeau, the rope that holds him pulled taut as he tries to avoid the men. “Bring the horse. I think Marquet needs a new one.”

Isabeau finally works herself free of the gag as the two guardsmen approach the horse. She tries to struggle again, only to be roughly shaken for her efforts. One of the men takes Goliath’s lead rope while the other raises his sword to cut it. His slash releases the horse, and the stallion does not pause. He reels about and runs, sending the man holding the rope tumbling. Isabeau laughs with absolutely no humor and when one of her guards attempts to fix the gag, she twists her wrist free and slaps him. She does not stop striking him until they wrangle her again, and when they try to guide her to their commanding officer she kicks and steps on them. It is petty, weak revenge, but it is all she has.

“I take it you don’t intend to come quietly.” Isabeau closes her eyes rather than look at the knight, who sounds more bored than anything. She feels pain creeping through her shoulders and thighs, but tests the guards with another violent twist. 

“Never to him,” she answers, letting them hold her weight when her gambit fails. “Not unless you leave Navarre here.” She opens her eyes then, looking up at the man on horseback. She isn’t begging, not yet. This is negotiating. He looks past her to the wagon, then shakes his head. 

“The bishop was very specific. He wants both of you.”

She stands again, trying not to let the sick terror show in her expression. That can only mean one thing for Navarre, and she will move heaven and earth to prevent it. “I will do anything. I have money, land. Anything, if you set him free.”

The man on horseback gives her an appraising look. She meets his eyes, tilting her chin up and squaring her shoulders. “Anything," he repeats. With a gesture he has the men stand her straight, her feet barely flat on the ground. “She offers us anything for the Captain’s freedom,” he calls to the men as they gather to begin moving out. A few of them laugh, while the rest shake their heads. “Witness the disloyalty of woman, so eager to bed another soldier after her husband is captured.” Her cheeks color dark pink, and he raises one hand immediately to dismiss her response. “Lady D’Anjou, you are for the Bishop, as is the Captain. We will not risk our salvation for the sake of a night of fun, even with a woman as beautiful as you.”

Isabeau looks away, curving her shoulders inward in spite of the men holding her arms. “Then let me ride with him. Tie my hands, tie my feet, do what you must, but let me ride with him.” There is no verbal response, but the duo who have her by the arms pull her hands behind her back and tie them tightly. One of the pair picks her up once she’s been adequately restrained, then sets her on the back of the wagon. She waits to see if they will tie her to a post, but the guardsman closes the rear gate and takes up position alongside the wheel. As the troop begins to move, Isabeau scoots along the wagon to lean against Navarre. 

Though she is exhausted, she tries to think. Her knife is somewhere in the saddlebags, which she can’t reach with feet or hands without the guards noticing. Navarre’s sword and armor have been taken by their captors. She has no jewellery to improvise a cutting tool. Her wrists are tied tight...she shifts her hips and presses closer to Navarre, almost sitting on him. Fumbling, she finds his hands and then the rope. The knots on him are less taut than hers. With fingers slowly going numb, she starts to work Navarre's bonds loose.

She can feel them beginning to give when the man walking next to the wagon takes a closer look at her. He grabs her by the hair and pulls her away from Navarre, shoving her against the back panel. "I wouldn't," he says, leaning over the side of the cart to check Navarre's bonds, then tightening them again. Isabeau can find no response. She slouches against the wood of the cart and her head sags against her chest in sorrow.

She remains there until the flickering of torchlight draws her attention. Rising to her knees, she looks out over the fields towards the unusual light. It is a circle of torches around a central point, which looks like a table or bench. Sinking down once again, she forces herself to take slow, long breaths against her spiking fear. The effort is exhausting-she can feel what energy she has left vanishing. She shuffles across the wagon again, disregarding the guards sharp glare as she settles herself onto Navarre's lap, putting her back to whatever they are moving towards.

"I am sorry, Navarre." She speaks in a whisper, her head leaned against his chest. "I am sorry it has come to this. I won't run. What they would do to you if I did..." She shudders and closes her eyes. "I love you. Even now, I love you, even in death I will love you. I hope I was worth this, and if I wasn't I am truly, truly sorry." A slight movement of her head sets her ear over his heart, still beating strong and true. "If you can live, if they give you that chance, you must take it. If you are free, I will always have hope and love, no matter how far apart we are."

She feels him draw a deep breath, then his nose burrows into her hair. Fresh tears prick in her eyes as he presses a kiss to her scalp. “I love you,” he murmurs to her. “I have loved you since I met you, and I will never stop. I would endure it all again for your smile. Even if they take you from me, I will always find my way to you. If they drive me off, I will always return.” He kisses her temple. “And if this is the end of me...of us…”

“I’m sorry.” She cranes her face upwards and kisses his jaw. “I’m sorry.”

“Isabeau.” He leans back to look at her again. “No apologies. There is nothing that could be done.” Navarre trails off, studying her face under the dim light of the crescent moon. “Everything I am is yours.”

“Everything I am is yours, Navarre,” she responds immediately, straining up to kiss him. She tastes like salt and wind, he like earth and blood, and once they have begun, there is nothing else. Even the cart stopping does not break them from one another. The guards around them hesitate, then two of them climb into the wagon and seize Isabeau by the shoulders. 

Pulling her from Navarre seems to drag the strength right out of her. She slouches as they take her from the cart and set her on the ground. Her hair hangs around her face, which she resolutely does not raise. She does not move until they jostle her, and even then she is slow. Each step is careful and deliberate, as though she must coordinate herself perfectly in each motion lest her resolve break. At this strained pace they march her from the cart to the circle, stopping just before they bring her through.

She is aware of two things very quickly. The bishop is here, and in spite of the night breeze, the air is heavy with the smell of blood. Though she had convinced herself not to show her fear, she begins to shiver. Her shoulders tense and her legs lock-even if the men push she will go no further under her own power. As surely as she can smell the salt and iron on the wind, she can feel his eyes on her. Though she has no idea where he is, she knows that he is looking at her throat first. He always moved downward from there, focusing on her breasts, her waist, her hips and her legs in turn. Even in the shapeless, dowdy sleepwear she has relied on during their brief flight, she feels horribly exposed. 

One of the men from the troop that brought them back passes she and her guards, stepping between the torches and approaching the bishop within. She sees the corner of her robe trailing behind the guardsman and her hands clench to fists. Digging her nails into her palm is the most fruitful action she can take as the guard and the bishop have a muffled conversation. She tries to concentrate on anything but the smell of blood and the popping of the torches, but it is becoming increasingly difficult to find a distraction. When there is movement in the circle, she twitches backwards almost involuntarily, taking even the guards by surprise. They tighten their grip on her arms as the footsteps of that which she hates and fears most rush across the clearing towards her. 

His smell reaches her before he does-a stink of sweat and sour sleep stewing in old fabric. There is an acrid underpinning which she immediately associates with the lust-sick looks she has seen in the eyes of countless men. Then he is in front of her and she tries to take a step away. His robes shine with drops of blood gone black in the moonlight. One hand is fisted around the clothing he was given by the guard. The other trembles as he raises it to seize her by the chin. She nearly vomits her meager supper into his palm-his fingers are sticky, and she can feel the warm smears as they cross her face. 

“Isabeau D’Anjou,” he says, forcing her to raise her head until she must meet his eyes. There is no mistaking the sickness in him now. He stares at her with a rage that surpasses her own, yet even his anger is adulterated by his desire. If ever he was a holy man, the Lord has surely abandoned him now. The hand slides from her chin to her throat as he holds up the stained robe. “What is this?” He hisses the last syllable.

Meeting the eyes of the monster, she feels something shred away-perhaps her fear has finally devoured itself, or she has simply accepted her fate, but a strange sort of peace falls over her. She meets those sick, mad eyes and feels her tears stop. Her foot, drawn back in a futile attempt at escape, steps forward. She tips her head down, accepting the pressure of his hand on her neck so she can meet his eyes. “My name,” she says, enunciating so sharply the words could be daggers, “is Isabeau of Navarre.”

His hand tightens around her throat almost involuntarily. She thrashes against the strength of the guards with everything she has left, but without air, she blacks out in moments. When she is limp he releases her, staggering back as the guards catch her slumping weight. The robe is dropped to one side. Silence falls until her chest heaves-the bishop recoils, the two men supporting her tense. Though she breathes, she does not wake, and after a moment of watching to be sure, the bishop urges the men to bring her into the circle.

Navarre’s arrival is less eventful-while Isabeau is carried past the torches, two men march Navarre from the cart to the ritual circle. Like Isabeau, he is stopped just outside of the ring, but unlike her his guards are joined by five other men. He looks, but can only see her guards standing on either side of her. The bishop stands before her, dipping his hand into a bowl and anointing both himself and her. 

Between them and Navarre stands an altar made of wood, just long enough to support a human body. He looks past it at first, but a change in the wind brings him the smell of blood and he is drawn to it again. What he initially mistook for discarded gear in the grass takes shape-closest to him is the corpse of a shepherds dog, closest to the altar is a lamb, and just visible at the far side is something with feathers. All are dead, bled out onto the altar and the ground around it. He can barely comprehend what he is confronted with, only that they have vastly underestimated the corruption of the bishop. A man driven by lust and power is nothing compared to a man who has allowed himself to be corrupted by the devil. He mutters a prayer as the knowledge settles with him, hoping that God can hear him amid this blasphemy. How the other men can stand and watch this monstrous display is beyond him-he can already feel his gorge rising.

The bishop steps away, motioning the men holding Isabeau towards the altar. The initial shock passes as he sees them turn her about, her head lolling against her chest. Whatever foulness the bishop has applied to her face smears on her dress as she is carried to the altar. He struggles anew, nearly wrenching his arm from its socket. Navarre is barely aware of calling her name, but she flinches awake at the sound of his voice. Her chin rises and she tries to put a foot out to stop her forward progress, succeeding only in making herself stumble. As they set her right, she raises her head, searching for him. She spots him and staggers again, the men keeping her standing this time. 

He expects tears or terror, not the glitter of fury in her eyes. Though the way her body hangs between the two men escorting her is awkward, her expression is set. The fire in her gaze burns into him, and he straightens his back. She braces her feet as they cut the rope around her wrists, then lets her arms hang. If he could not see her eyes, he would assume her to have given up completely. Even the bishop could not accomplish that in the few minutes he’s had with her, though it is rapidly clear that he tried. Past the ichor spattered on her face, Navarre can see bruises around her neck and a pattern of lines forming on her wrists. He heaves himself against the strength of the men holding him back, but they restrain him as two guards within the circle grab her by the shoulders and push her towards the altar.

She plants her feet, trying to keep from touching it as long as she can. When they kick at her ankles and force her to move, she tries to drop her shoulder and slide beneath it rather than onto it. They put up with her attempts to resist until the bishop takes a step towards them. One hooks one arm around her neck and one around her waist. The other guard grabs her feet, taking a few weak strikes across the face before he catches both. They heave her onto the altar, the one who has his arms around her body keeping her there as the second retrieves a gore-soaked rope from beneath, loops it over her waist and arms and ties it tightly.

Navarre can barely hear her over his own roar of fury. She screams, twisting and kicking as she frantically tries to tip the altar or work herself free. As Navarre digs in his feet and begins to drag his guards towards her, the bishop approaches Isabeau from the far side of the altar. His hands are raised to the sky, one holding a chalice, the other a dagger. The words he intones are lilting and foreign, nothing like the Latin of the Church. He pays no attention to Navarre as he breaks the circle, nor does the bishop seem especially bothered as Isabeau wrenches herself away from him. It does little good-her bloody hands can’t find purchase on the knots, and her heels continue to slip on the wood beneath her. 

The dagger is passed thrice over the chalice, then the bishop dips the tip into the contents of the cup. He glances at the guard who had been holding her until the ritual began and the man hesitantly returns to the altar, putting his hands on Isabeau’s shoulders and forcing them down to the wooden surface. She makes a hoarse sound of fury, then the bishop presses the flat of the dagger to her forehead. The knife feels like a licking tongue as it smears blood into her skin, and on the second pass the liquid starts to burn. The heat tears through her body, all pain at first, and then a twist of false pleasure. Isabeau’s struggles against the men performing the ritual cease as she curls into a ball on the flat top of the altar. Each breath becomes a begging sob for the torment to end. 

Navarre draws on strength he did not know he possessed-even without the use of his hands, he pulls three men halfway to the altar. When two more come to the aid of the first three, it only brings him to a standstill. He plants his feet, stalwart as a bull in his need to reach her. He no longer calls out to her. Every attempt at forward motion is accompanied by an enraged bellow. When the men unexpectedly let him go, he tumbles off of his feet with the sudden change in momentum, and they take advantage. He is seized at each limb and rushed to the altar, then forced to his knees next to it. Reorienting himself is quick, but horrible, having reached his destination with no chance to execute the rescue he had planned. He is inches from Isabeau’s face as she contorts in agony and he can do nothing to help her. The men who brought him to the altar keep him securely in place, while the others move as bidden by the bishop.

The rope holding Isabeau to the altar is untied. She barely seems to notice, curled in on herself as she is, until one of the men takes her wrists and the other her ankles, pulling until she is stretched out on the altar. The man at her feet moves his grip to her knees as the bishop approaches. She tries to kick again, but her body tenses with pain and she is reduced to squirming. The bishop watches her for a long moment, then begins to sing again. He lays his hands along one of her calves, sliding his fingers over her skin until he reaches her boot. He pulls it off and tosses it to the side, moving to her other leg and repeating the process. Isabeau cries for Navarre and he tries to push past the guards again, but he can do nothing. 

The bishop strokes her legs fondly as he sings the strange devil song, retrieving some cord from beneath his robes. He ties a loop around each of her ankles, then passes a cloth hood to one of the men. He takes up the cup once more, running his other hand the length of her body before he stops, standing next to her head. His tone changes, becoming lower and harsher as he holds the chalice over her, then bends and wedges her mouth open to pour its contents down her throat. She chokes and spits up most of the cooling blood, but he pays that no mind, waiting for her to gasp for air. When her mouth comes open, he forces a strip of meat between her teeth, snatching his hand back quickly. The song becomes a drone as the guard takes the hood and slips it over Isabeau’s head, tying it loosely at her neck. Her protests become muffled. 

Navarre is certain he knows what they will do next, but it does not happen. She is lifted from the altar by one of the men and taken to a blanket next to the bishops ritual preparations. They lay her on the ground, then leave her to curl into a ball again, carefully spreading a sheet over her from head to toe. One of the guards stations himself next to the blankets, but makes no move towards them. 

Navarre is so intent on her that the guards holding him have the advantage when they try to move him again. One wraps an arm around his neck and squeezes while the others grapple his arms and legs. As one, they heave his bulk onto the gritty, sticky surface of the altar, then work quickly to tie him down at the waist and bind his wrists over his head before he can do more than cuff a few ears. He is facedown, unlike Isabeau, and they have no care for his modesty. His shirt is ripped off of him, then he feels filthy, crusted hands crossing his back as the bishop begins his song again. The first pass is dry, but the second is slimy and cold. The hands, which he assumes belong to the bishop, leave gobs of the blood potion in their wake. The tacky sensation of the drying filth makes his stomach heave again, nausea that does not abate when the hands rub along his shoulders and down his sides. 

He pulls on the ropes at his wrists to no avail when the bishops hands leave him. Trying to turn his head to see reveals nothing. The bishop is dealing with his preparations, and the men are watching over him. He hears the bishop approach once more, then two of the men yank his head back. He tries to protest, but the chalice scrapes against his teeth before he can say a word. The blood tastes bitter and overwhelmingly metallic, and the half-clotted texture makes him immediately sick. A fierce chill shudders through him as he vomits onto the altar, and as his body is wracked with shivers, the bishop forces a piece of flesh into Navarre’s mouth. 

He tries to push the strip of meat out of his mouth, but his teeth chatter with the sudden cold. The pain that came so quickly over Isabeau creeps through him, insidious as frost. He shudders and spasms on the altar, feeling his fingers numb and his toes curl. Between the convulsions, he is dimly aware that he has been untied and a rope has been looped around his neck, but that means very little to him now. He is certain he is dying a horrible, painful death-hanging might be a mercy compared to the chills that arrow deeper than a normal winters cold ever could. He can’t move to fight, not with limbs so knotted with pain. 

His head throbs and suddenly he can hear Isabeau gasping quietly for air. He can smell her, bright and warm, underneath the blood and the scents of the men around him. The bishop, still much too close, carries a dark smell that Navarre understands to be fear. The shivers take him again and he flops into his side, curling his arms up towards his chest. Past the men and the circle he can see the sky beginning to lighten, and the sight causes his body to convulse violently. For a moment he is certain that his arms are sprouting fur, then they return to normal. His back spasms and arches, his ribs bow, and he kicks his legs as it feels for a moment like his bones are trying to rearrange themselves under his skin. His hearing fades in and out, until finally the light breaks over the hills.

The sun drives off the cold, though when it crosses the ritual circle it gives rise to a horrifying stench. Navarre rolls himself off of the altar, landing with a squishy thud on the grass below. The pain and the chill recede in the morning light, as does his strange awareness-it is with normal eyes that he observes the guards vomiting themselves senseless in the circle and the bishop slumped on the ground. With limbs shaking from exhaustion, Navarre crawls past them, a singular goal in mind. He rounds the corner of the altar and angles himself directly for the blankets. His brief burst of energy abandons him when he reaches his goal, and he is left to paw at the sheet, tugging it ineffectually. When she does not emerge immediately, he sags to the ground, staring with deep confusion at the small lump in the center of the blankets. Slowly, carefully, he pulls the sheet away, revealing a hunting hawk complete with jesses and hood. Though her dress and the blood of the ritual remain, there is no sign of Isabeau.

He stares at the bird, dimly aware that there is someone thrashing through the field towards him. Pity overcomes his grief as he realises this animal must have been a sacrifice the bishop missed. It had hidden alongside his wife until they took her...wherever she was now. He reaches out and strokes its feathers, then gently bumps his wrist against it's chest as he saw his father do in the mews. The bird steps onto his arm and he carefully brings it closer, reaching for the hood. Saving the hawk is nothing compared to finding Isabeau, but it is all he can think to do- anything else seems foolishly enormous right now.

His fingers shake as he loosens the hood, pulling it free of the birds head. He does not expect the familiar blue of Isabeau's eyes to look back at him from the hawk. They stare at one another long enough that he knows that it is her, somehow. Then one of the torches is knocked over and she takes flight. He tries to heave himself to his feet after her, but barely reaches his knees before she is lost to the sky overhead.

"Navarre?" The man's voice is raspy and heavy with drink, but Navarre recognizes it anyway. He stares into the distance after the hawk, unanswering until Imperius steps into his view. "You must come with me," the priest says, putting his hand on Navarre's shoulder. "For your sake and hers, you must come now."

Navarre clamps a hand down on Imperius' shoulder and uses the priest as leverage to rise to his feet. "He turned her into a bird," he says as Imperius steadies him and urges him to turn and walk. One of the guards weakly grabs for his leg. Navarre steps free easily. "How?"

"I will explain once we are out of this blasted place," Imperius promises, guiding the man back towards the cart. "Though you will not be glad of the answer."

Overhead, the hawk circles back.


	13. Coda

Isabeau awakens with a gasp, kicking madly at phantoms. She rolls onto her belly, grasping frantically for something she can use as a weapon and finding nothing. When her eyes adjust to the dim of the early evening, she slows her search. This is not the circle, there is no altar. The bishop is not here. She sits back on her heels and the cold catches her attention-she is naked as the day she was born, save for a few stray leaves. 

Though that would seem to be her highest priority, she discards it in favor of another. Getting to her feet, she walks a circle, looking for any sign of Navarre. Wrapping one arm around herself, she pauses and calls his name. Her hope is a fragile thing. When there is no response, her tears flow. She stands in place for several breaths, then walks to a bush and huddles against it. Now she cries in earnest, tucking her knees to her chest and sobbing. 

Twilight becomes night. Her tears finally ebb as she hears the sound of approaching footsteps. They are not the noise of a cautious person. She sees a small torch bobbing in the forest gloom, initially cringing from it until she gets a good look at the face it illuminates. "Imperius?" She calls. Her voice quavers.

He looks up from his perusal of the ground, squinting past the torchlight. "Lady Isabeau?" A great bruise spreads across his jaw, leaving his eye puffy with injury. She gasps at the sight, remaining where she is. "I have clothing," he calls. 

Isabeau raises one hand hesitantly. "Here," she answers. "Throw it, if you can." There is a pause, then a bundle thumps down next to her. She stretches for it, finding a shirt and pants more suited for a boy wrapped in a familiar cloak. She dresses quickly, tying the waist of the pants tight, then pulls the cloak over her shoulders. It is warm and heavy, awash with the smell of Navarre. She pulls up the hood and wraps the fabric around her body, surrounding herself with him. 

"Are you hungry?" The priests voice breaks her reverie as he approaches. She raises the hood of the great cloak just enough to see him, then shakes her head. 

"What did they do to him?" She asks, holding the cloak tight enough to herself that she can almost imagine Navarre is there. "Where is the body, Father?" 

Imperius stops where he is and stares, a waft of the telltale stink of strong wine coming off of him. "The body?" He asks slowly, as though he hasn't heard her correctly. 

"Navarre. Where is he? Did they bury him?" She tilts her head forward again, letting the hood slide to obscure her face. She didn't think she could cry any more than she has, and yet the tears flow. 

"Oh!" Imperius grasps her arm. "My lady, Navarre lives!"

He expects her face to light with joy, but she regards him with deep suspicion instead. "That is impossible, Father. The bishop-"

"Was unable to stop me from taking him from that profane altar," Imperius answers, patting her arm through the cloak. "He is alive, I can assure you."

She shakes her head, looking past him into the woods. "No, if he was alive he would be with you. He would have found me. Take me to him, Imperius, I promise you I have seen worse things in these last nights than a corpse."

"I would if I could, my lady, but I do not know where he has gone." 

Her anger gets the better of her and she lashes out, slapping the priest across his bruised cheek. "He would not. He would not abandon me." Her heart aches at that, recalling every chance she gave him to save himself. If he would not leave her in the face of certain death, he would not leave upon their escape. "Explain what is going on, priest, or else I will walk all the way to Aquila to ask His Grace." 

The priest looks up under the hood, searching her eyes for something he doesn't find. "You don't remember at all," he muses, holding up a hand when she tries to pull away from him. "Lady Isabeau, please understand, this will seem like a lie-"

"I have no time for games, Father."

"But it is the truth. Navarre lives, but as a wolf. Just as you live, but changed." He watches the hood, waiting for her to think it through. Her breathing shudders, then she folds the cloak inwards again.

"It was a dream," she insists. He can't see her face, but he can imagine her expression, tightly controlled. "I dreamed of flying, that's all. He bewitched us, Father, but no one can turn a man to a wolf."

"Or a woman to a hawk? Yesterday I would have said it was not so, but this morning I saw it myself." He squeezes her arm, and she tenses. “He has called upon the devil and cursed you both, Isabeau. Navarre lives by day as a man, by night as a wolf. You live by night as a woman, by day as a hawk. Always separated, never to touch again.”

She slips her arm out of his hand. “It is impossible, Father. A fever dream. I don’t know what you saw, but…” She turns, looking back and forth through the woods, trying to decide what to do. “Take me to the last place you saw Navarre, and I will follow him from there.”

Imperius considers this for a moment, then nods. At his refuge he may be able to convince her further, and it was the last place he saw Navarre. If memory serves, the man’s clothes are still in the lower courtyard, where he transformed as the sun vanished. “Follow me, then. It’s a quick walk.”

Isabeau breathes a sigh, then falls into step behind him as he turns and walks back in the direction he came from. She picks her way carefully, still barefoot, as they progress from the forest to the remnants of a hillside castle. The broken down building looks even more desolate in the dark of night, its outline very similar to the keep miles away where she and Navarre spent their last night. She runs her hands over the lining of the cloak to reassure herself as they enter the courtyard. 

“All of your things are in my chambers,” Imperius assures her as they mount the stairs. For the early part of the day, Navarre had been as determined as Isabeau is now that he would find her and bring her back. It was only as the night approached and the devils work began to manifest itself that the former captain of the guard had understood their dilemma. By then everything was already in the old castle, and he’d decided to leave it in case she came. 

The priest guides her to the room Navarre had left, bags to one side, his discarded clothing to the other. She fixates on that immediately, crouching next to the pile of bloody cloth and turning it over with one hand. “Father…”

“He was here, my lady. But he has gone.” He tries to be gentle now, though it doesn’t seem like it is helping her very much. “This is everything I could bring with me. Take your time with it.”

She stares at their gathered belongings, everything they have left in the world. Navarre’s armor, Goliath’s tack, her bag and the saddlebags. As Imperius leaves, she slips out of the cloak, laying it carefully on the flat pallet that must serve as a bed in the otherwise spartan room. Picking up her bag first, she sits on the cloak and takes a deep breath. She opens the bag, her fingers immediately brushing over parchment, which she withdraws and examines. It is the paper they signed on their wedding night, but on the back, in one corner, there is some writing. 

She runs her fingers across it first, then unbinds it and peers at the tiny script. 

_My dearest Isabeau,_

Her heart pounds in her ears. How many letters has she read that began with those words? Who else writes in such careful, blocky cursive? She touches her name. He didn't have time to write while they were riding, nor before-the scroll was always with her.

_I do not have much more time. Night is coming. I am alive and well. In the morning I will leave and go north to the mountains. Speak with Imperius, hear what he knows, then wait for me here if you can bear it._

_I love you._

_Your Navarre._

She rubs her thumb over his name. He is alive. He was here. He is alive. Her fingers follow the short jabs of his signature. He is alive. She digs in the bag, hoping for some other sign. Near the bottom, she finds her scarf, wound tightly around a hawk's hood. Closing her eyes she tries to remember, recalling only darkness, then light and the sky above. She rolls the scroll tightly shut, then carries it with her down the hall to the room Imperius is in. 

"Tell me everything," she says, taking a seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I am happy you read my story and I really hope you enjoyed it. If you want more, there is a companion piece that takes place during the film: [](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1975848>Skies%20Are%20Black%20And%20Blue</a>.)


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